


The Clothes (Apparently) Make the Hero

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: The Black Wolf of Solitude [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Big Damn Heroes, Civil War, Class Differences, Class Issues, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Multi, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:44:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gytha Bark-Shod is a vagrant who's so poor she has to make her shoes from birch bark, hence her nickname amongst the various small villages of Skyrim. Until the day she enters Solitude, agrees to run an errand for the innkeeper and wear an outfit made by Radiant Raiment up to the Blue Palace, her biggest ambition has been a full stomach and warm bed. By the next morning, she's agreed to investigate a haunted cave, given Elisif political advice, and been mistaken for a savvy, well-travelled adventurer by the Jarl's court all because of a new dress and a haircut.</p><p>She finds herself involved in the civil war...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Dress

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Skyrim story with absolutely nothing to do with the Aureliiverse or Ysraneth’s Tale. Trigger warning for violence, death and fantastic racism.

Gytha Bark-Shod pulled the last of the potatoes from the Lylvieves’ garden as Azzada chopped firewood nearby. Technically her labour wasn’t needed – Michel and Clinton were more than capable of harvesting vegetables even with Julienne working at the Four Shields – but Azzada, an orphan of Markarth, had a soft heart and paid her a pittance in food and sometimes septims to do the heavier, more unpleasant chores. Horgeir, the local lumber mill owner, let her keep one out of six firewood pieces she cut when Lodvar was in Solitude and in return for sweeping out the ashes, scrubbing pots and other dirty tasks, Faida allowed Gytha to sleep on the floor of the inn. Even before the war, there was little enough charity to be spared in Dragon Bridge, and with the Stormcloaks rebelling and a Penitus Oculatus outpost being set up here – well, every day carried the risk of being told to move on as Lodvar repeatedly suggested.

            At least it was late summer. When she was done with the potatoes, Gytha would be able to venture close to the Karth River and tickle fish out of the water with her bare hands, gather juniper berries and hanging moss from the trees up near where Horgeir concealed his mead stash from Olda, and find pine bark to dry-roast on a flat river stone for her winter food cache. When summer bled into autumn, the nights lengthening and the wolves slinking nearer to the village in hopes of food, it would be time to craft woven-bark shoes from the middle layer of the birch tree, the footwear which gave her the byname everyone in Dragon Bridge knew her by.

            She scrubbed the dirt from her hands with the tattered skirt of her plain brown dress, it and the dirty beige shift beneath castoffs from Faida, and wondered if her small store of septims would soon stretch to a better one when the peddler came through next. Though just over an hour’s walk from Solitude and the legendary Radiant Raiment, Gytha knew there was more chance of dragons returning than her ever having the septims to patronise the Altmer-owned shop. That was assuming she wasn’t run out of Skyrim’s capital city as a vagrant, which she admittedly was.

            Azzada looked up from cutting firewood and smiled sympathetically; his paucity of charity didn’t come from a lack of kindness but rather few resources, as General Tullius took half the crops for his Legions so they could fight the Stormcloaks who lurked in a camp just off the road to Solitude. “How many potatoes?” he asked quietly.

            “Six,” she replied, holding up the dirty root vegetables.

            The Redguard nodded, jerking his chin at the door to his small cottage. “Give them to Michel. They’ll thicken up the stew a bit and there’ll be enough for a bowl for everyone.”

            Gytha couldn’t help the grin which spread her lips, earning a matching one from Azzada. Michel’s vegetable stew was the best in the village and with the wind blowing cold off the Druadach Mountains which held the Reach, it would warm the belly nicely.

            Azzada’s wife accepted the handful of vegetables with a brief smile, washing and peeling them with the ease of long skill before cutting the white potatoes into the stew and thriftily saving the peelings for spring’s compost. In Dragon Bridge, meat was saved for the rare feasts or when the Jarl of Solitude sent down a couple goats every year on their birthday. Faida had to get her beef and venison from Solitude and her salmon from Gytha, who kept the little fish for her own meals. Protein generally came from dried beans, which made for… fragrant winter evenings when everyone was huddled in their houses. If stink was gold, Dragon Bridge would be richer than Solitude and Whiterun combined.

            Gytha left the Lylvieves’ cottage and walked over to the Four Shields, noting the fine bay horses stabled outside. Most likely Penitus Oculatus or Legion officers’ mounts as merchants only stayed at the Four Shields when they knew they wouldn’t reach Solitude by the time the gates were locked for the night. If there were more than three, Faida would tell her to scrub up, don a spare apron, and help Julienne serve them in return for half of the tips. She certainly hoped so.

            Inside, a pair of handsome Imperial men in Penitus Oculatus uniforms lounged at the bar, the younger charming Faida into giggles with a lightly gravelled voice. The elder, a hard-eyed man with a neat goatee, eyed Gytha dismissively before turning back to his tankard and bowl of beef stew.

            Before she could approach the innkeeper to see if help was needed, Gytha was intercepted by Julienne, the waitress wearing a slight frown. “Faida told me to give you a few septims and send you on your way,” the eldest daughter of Azzada reported softly. “Seems Commander Maro’s son has taken a liking to her and she doesn’t want him to think her place is a refuge for… ah…”

            “Beggars?” Gytha asked bitterly, stung by Julienne’s words. She expected Lodvar or Varnius Junius to move her along, not Faida – but when a wealthy-looking nobleman was showing interest, she supposed the innkeeper was only too happy to see the vagrant gone.

            The Breton girl looked stricken. “I’m sure you could stay at our place until the Penitus Oculatus is gone!” she protested softly. “Father feels sorry for you.”

            Gytha felt guilty. It wasn’t the Lylvieves’ fault. But she knew that the friendly offer would eventually turn sour as winter closed in and meagre resources stretched thin. Best to be gone now, in late summer when food could be gathered, than turned out in winter. So she shook her head, took the handful of coins pressed into her hands and thanked Julienne for the kindness.

            Outside, she approached Azzada and told him what happened. The Redguard sighed and repeated the offer his daughter made, only to be met with a similar shake of the head and hearty assurances that she would be fine. Gytha saw the quick flash of relief, followed by guilt, in the Redguard’s eyes and knew that Faida wasn’t the only one tired of supporting a penniless vagrant in return for work anyone could do. Definitely time for her to leave Dragon Bridge.

            It was a clear, relatively warm day and Gytha made her way to the bank of the Karth, selecting a particular stone and digging it up. Beneath were her meagre food hoard and a small bag of coins; with the ten septims from Faida added to it, she had a grand total of twenty-three septims, enough for a night and meal at the Four Shields. She tucked it into her ragged beltpouch, the one always strapped to her body beneath her clothing, before stripping down and giving herself a scrub. She might as well head to Solitude and hope that someone needed a pot girl and maid-of-all-work.

            The sun was at the peak of its journey in the sky as Gytha walked through Dragon Bridge for what would be the last time for a good while. Azzada intercepted her, a slightly guilty expression on his face, and handed her a bundle of wrapped linen. “Michel and Julienne put this together for you,” he told her. “A dress, shift and boots Julienne outgrew two years ago. Not much, but…”

            Gytha found it in her to smile at the Redguard. “Thank you. It’s better than Faida’s farewell gift,” she told him honestly.

            The farmer sighed. “It’s rough, I know, but in these days a person’s got to do what they must to get ahead. Commander Maro and his son will be stationed here for a good long time what with the Emperor’s cousin getting married and the civil war, so it helps Faida to be on their good side.”

            Gytha shrugged indifferently. “I expected to be moved on sooner or later. Better now than winter.”

            Azzada nodded sympathetically. “I know. I wish I could help you more, I truly do.”

            “You’ve helped me more than some.” Gytha smiled at him again. “I should get going if I want to be in Solitude by dusk.”

            He nodded again. “Gods go with you, Gytha. I hope you find a stroke of luck similar to the one that brought me to Dragon Bridge.”

            “Gods watch over your battles,” Gytha responded automatically before turning towards Solitude. There was plenty of cover beside the road where she could change into something better than her current garments.

            The trip was uneventful, Gytha passing by Varnius Junius along the way as he muttered something about unhelpful Solitude bureaucrats and giving her only the briefest of looks. She supposed that the strange lights out of Wolfskull Cave hadn’t bothered the Jarl’s court enough to dispatch a guard or two to investigate it.

            Now clad in a purple overdress and leaf-green shift with soft, shapeless boots on her feet, Gytha walked gingerly up the steep hill towards Solitude’s main gates past the camp of Khajiit merchants who never stopped in Dragon Bridge. The guard at the first archway told her to watch herself or she’d end up like Roggvir, whoever _he_ was, and if she wanted to join the Legion she should speak to Legate Rikke.

            _Joining the Legion, now there’s a laugh,_ Gytha thought wryly as she passed through the open gates. _I wager the Legion tunics are tougher and stronger than me._

Just inside, an execution was being carried out, the Stormcloak laid upon the headsman’s block called Roggvir by a tall, dark-haired guard in captain’s uniform. It seemed like the man had let Ulfric Stormcloak out after he’d killed High King Torygg, igniting the Civil War, and so Solitude bayed for his blood because the Jarl of Windhelm had so far escaped the Redguard executioner’s heavy axe.

            “On this day, I go to Sovngarde,” Roggvir murmured just before the axe descended with the thunk of iron meeting solid wood.

            The guard sighed as the crowd issued a few last imprecations in the dead Roggvir’s direction. “Damn shame Roggvir, you were a good man,” he observed quietly.

            Gytha walked through the crowd, keeping her head down. Her stomach was growling and politics meant nothing to her.

            The Winking Skeever, a finely appointed inn that made the Four Shields look like the dingy village tavern that it was, had no need of pot girls or waitresses as Corpulus Vinius and his son Sorex handled the inn, though the younger man pulled her aside, asked her to run up a bottle of Stros M’kai rum for Falk Firebeard and suggested that the Blue Palace might have need of an extra serving woman. Gytha agreed, lacking other options, and found herself walking through the residential part of Solitude where the houses were all built from stone with grey-blue slate roofs.

            “If you’re heading to the Blue Palace, you might want to rethink your outfit,” observed a passing Altmer woman in fine garments snidely.

            “What’s wrong with my outfit?” Gytha asked confusedly. Yes, Julienne’s old dress was a little worn, but it wasn’t patched.

            “Nothing, if you’re hoeing crops in some little village,” the Altmer woman said dryly.

            “What should I wear to the Blue Palace then?” Gytha countered acidly.

            “You… really _are_ going to the Blue Palace?” The Altmer woman sounded more than a little surprised. “This presents an opportunity, hmm…”

            She rummaged around in a finely embroidered linen satchel and pulled out a soft robe of gold-embroidered elf’s ear-green goat’s wool, a bear-fur shawl with a brooch of gold-washed copper, an ankle-length dress of leaf-green linen that was finer than Gytha had ever seen, and a heavy garnet-and-gold pendant. “I was going to wear these garments myself up to the Blue Palace and see if Jarl Elisif wanted to put in an order, but seeing you made me realise that she would get a better idea of how they would look upon a Nord. Put on these and when you’re up at the Blue Palace, ask the Jarl what she thinks of them. When that’s done, come back to Radiant Raiment and let me know what she says.”

            Gytha nodded, absolutely stunned that she was being asked to wear something from Radiant Raiment, and followed the Altmer to a discreet corner where she could change into the dress and robe. Once dressed, the gold-skinned woman pursed her lips thoughtfully and pulled out a comb and scissors.

            “Your hair needs to be a little neater to pull off the look,” she said critically as she gestured for Gytha to sit down on a nearby low stone fence. “You’re remarkably clean for a Nord…”

            The Altmer, whose name Gytha didn’t yet have, chattered along in the same vein as she combed and clipped the Nord woman’s hair into order. It took longer than she expected, the sun westering by the time she was finished, and when it was done she nodded in satisfaction.

            “Take a look,” she ordered, handing over a small silver mirror – worth more septims than Gytha had ever seen in her life – so that she could examine her reflection.

            Instead of straggling messily around her face in a loose ponytail that hung at the side, Gytha’s brown hair fell straight as a blade to her shoulders but for a single braid hanging at her left temple. Just the simple act of trimming her tresses made her thin, heart-shaped face look less haggard, the facial scars, tanned flesh and creases around her wide, slightly downturned green eyes the signs of a noble warrior, not a wandering vagrant. ‘Beautiful’ wasn’t an adjective to be granted to her, but this woman in the mirror looked striking, perhaps even noble.

            “I see the reputation of Radiant Raiment is exceeded by the reality,” Gytha finally said.

            “Of course it is. My sister Endarie and I are the finest ateliers in Skyrim,” the Altmer woman said haughtily. “Now go and dazzle the Jarl. I expect at least one order from her by the end of the week.”

            Gytha rose to her feet, dusting off the robe gingerly and marvelling at its softness. She smiled awkwardly at the Altmer woman and obeyed.

            The Blue Palace was a place of grandeur, once home to Jarls who became Emperors. She passed by two men sitting in the front antechambers – one a robed Altmer man and the other a hardened warrior in iron plate – and entered the Great Hall, looking at the indoor garden in awe. Of all the buildings Gytha expected to enter in Solitude, this was the last.

            She climbed the stairs, noticing a woman in plain brown linen nodding respectfully as she passed, and found herself confronted by the Jarl of Solitude’s court. Elisif the Fair, a slight redhead in fine red and brown robes, sat straight-backed on her late husband’s throne as a bearded man with close-cropped hair and more than a little resemblance to her stood to her left. He had to be Falk Firebeard. A heavy-bodied man in fine steel plate and wearing Orcish weapons stood to Elisif’s right – he had to be her huscarl – while the robed Breton woman with strangely glowing eyes next to Falk had to be the court wizard. Two finely dressed individuals – a brown-haired woman in fur-trimmed robes and a leather breastplate and a man in fine blue coat and breeches – sat off to the side, watching Gytha intently.

            The beggar, certain she would be discovered as a fraud any moment, stepped forward and saluted Elisif by banging her fist to her chest in the old warrior’s style. “Greetings, my Jarl,” she said formally.

            “Welcome to the Blue Palace,” Elisif greeted, looking uncertainly in Falk’s direction. “How may I help you?”

            _Oh shit what do I say now?_ Gytha swallowed, betting that the court would throw her out before she could fulfil her errands, and pasted a smile on her face.

            “Jarl Elisif, it is customary to ask the names of those who come to court if they are unknown to us,” Falk murmured into the young woman’s ear.

            “Oh, of course! My apologies, honoured guest.” Elisif’s smile was shy and if Gytha didn’t know any better, she’d swear the Jarl was begging her forgiveness with her eyes.

            “The fault is mine,” the woman said hastily. It never hurt to butter up the nobility by taking the blame on herself. “Court usually isn’t somewhere I go unless I have business there and… _well_ , my manners have been compared to that of a goat’s more than once by those who hold such things important. My name is Gytha-“ She quickly swallowed her byname, no need to embarrass the Radiant Raiment sisters by revealing a homeless vagrant wore their fine garments. “-And I’ve come to deliver Falk Firebeard’s rum.”

            “Ah!” Falk’s eyes were full of questions as he held out his hand for the bottle, which Gytha gladly delivered to him. “Thank you. I picked up a taste for it on a fair-weather journey to Hammerfell.”

            Gytha shrugged. “No need to thank me. I was coming up this way anyway and when Sorex asked me to do him the favour, it was little enough trouble to agree.”

            “A well-dressed errand girl,” the man in blue observed blandly to the woman with the leather breastplate.

            “ _Some_ people aren’t so arrogant as to refuse to perform a simple favour without wanting something in return,” the woman retorted coolly. “ _Some_ people understand that it is their duty to serve Skyrim and its folk, not wring out every last septim they can from them.”

            _Oh shit, do they think I’m a noble?_ Gytha smoothed down the robe, hoping that her sweaty palms didn’t leave marks upon the fine wool. Radiant Raiment wouldn’t be pleased if she ruined their clothing, after all.

            Falk’s eyes swept towards the two as they bickered before looking to Gytha. “Please accept a small token of my appreciation,” he said smoothly, handing over a purse of fine brown leather he produced from his maroon coat.

            Gytha accepted it, feeling the weight of the septims within. “Thank you,” she told him quietly, trying to keep the raw gratitude from her voice.

            Elisif cleared her throat. “Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner? I see the marks of a long journey on you and I’m sure a traveller like you must have many questions.”

            _Oh shit,_ Gytha thought for the third time. Elisif’s voice, light and sweet, had a pleading tone to it.

            “I’d be honoured,” she said carefully. “Though I have warned you some say I have the manners of a goat.”

            The woman in leather laughed as she rose to her feet. “Only the career courtier thinks less of a fighter who has less than polished manners. I am Thane Bryling and I always have time to share a word with a fellow warrior.”

            The man in blue regarded Bryling scornfully. “And only a warrior dismisses the wisdom of those who raise the wealth which pays for her kind.”

            He looked to Gytha, eyes running up and down in an assessing manner. “I’m Thane Erikur, the richest man in Solitude.”

            “Obviously the most humble too,” Gytha noted under her breath.

            Erikur regarded her patronisingly as he stood. “I don’t believe in false modesty. And besides, not all Nords are brainless sword-swingers. _Some_ of us have a head for business.”

            “Pity you lack an appetite for honour,” Bryling retorted.

            “Honour is a quaint notion. Stormcloaks have ‘honour’ and they’re rebelling against the Empire.” Erikur’s tone was blatant in its arrogance. “Business is good for the Empire, which is good for Skyrim.”

            “I would like to remind you that we have a guest to the court,” Falk told the two Thanes severely.

            “My apologies, Falk,” Bryling responded, her eyes and voice softening as she looked on the man.

            “Yes, yes, mine too,” Erikur muttered as they were led into the dining room.

            Much to Gytha’s further shock, she found herself sat next to Elisif herself, who looked almost pathetically grateful to have a conversation partner who wasn’t the two sniping Thanes. “I must ask, who made your dress?” the Jarl asked as the servants brought in the first course, which was more food than the homeless woman had seen in a few days. “It’s really quiet lovely and suits you.”

            “Endarie at Radiant Raiment,” Gytha responded quickly, recalling the name that the Altmer woman who’d given her the clothing mentioned. “But her sister chose it for me.”

            Elisif smiled. “Taarie is a woman of elegant taste. I see you’re wise enough to listen to those with greater expertise in certain matters than you.”

            “Thank you,” Gytha murmured as shreds of smoked salmon on pieces of flatbread smeared with a greenish paste were served by the servant in brown linen who’d nodded respectfully earlier. “Taarie definitely proved that the clothes can make the man – or in my case, the woman.”

            The Jarl of Solitude nodded sagely. “Indeed. If I could ask a small favour of you, please let Taarie know that I will contact her in regards to a significant order in a few days.”

            _Can you afford it?_ Gytha thought a little waspishly but nodded. She waited for Elisif to thank the Divines for the meal before picking up one of the pieces of flatbread and nibbling it.

            The salmon was flavoured faintly with honey, the sweetness mingling with the cool bite of the paste on the flatbread, and Gytha resisted the urge to devour it though her stomach screamed for food. She nibbled at it delicately as Erikur and Falk discussed the state of Solitude’s trade, something about the East Empire Trading Company being hit by pirates out of Dawnstar.

            The second course was venison smothered in snowberry sauce accompanied by a side of mashed potatoes sprinkled with garlic and goat’s cheese. By now the conversation had progressed to Wolfskull Cave, Erikur cracking a joke about ‘peasant superstitions’ when the strange lights and noises came up.

            “I’ve seen them,” Gytha said flatly. “You should send someone up there to check it out.”

            “Gytha is right,” Bryling said approvingly. “Potema the Wolf Queen used that cave for dark rituals – who knows what spirits could lurk there? At best, it will just be wind and foxfire. But if it’s something worse…”

            Falk sighed. “I was going to let it slide, but if our honoured guest has confirmed Varnius’ report, then I have no choice.”

            Cutting into her venison, perfectly pink-rare with a reddish-brown exterior beneath the blood-red sweet-sharp sauce, Gytha used her iron dagger to eat the pieces of meat. It was perfect salty-sweet, easily the finest venison she’d ever eaten – until now served up as too-old roast, indifferent stew or cut from a dead deer at the side of a road and roasted briefly over the fire – and she savoured every bite.

            “Our honoured guest looks like a seasoned adventurer,” Erikur noted blandly, eyes gleaming maliciously. “Perhaps she should be the one to deal with it.”

            Only years of experience kept Gytha from choking on her food and even then, it was several moments before she could swallow and speak. “Why is it always the last to draw a sword that is the first to send others to do their fighting for them?” she asked of the air, recalling a priest’s passing comment in Dawnstar – or was it Winterhold? She couldn’t remember.

            “Hear, hear,” Bryling agreed with a disdainful glance in Erikur’s direction. “I see you have some experience with people like that.”

            “Don’t we all?” Elisif’s huscarl, who’d been introduced as Bolgeir Bear-Claw, agreed dryly.

            Falk nodded after flashing an annoyed look at Erikur. “Indeed. Though… I would appreciate if you, or someone trustworthy, could investigate the cave for us.”

            Gytha didn’t get the undertone of his voice but she realised that she was caught in a neat box. If she refused, the court would know her as the fake she was but if she accepted, she was probably dead. “I’ll go myself and take someone to watch my back,” she finally said carefully.

            “Belrand,” Bryling said promptly. “The man’s a spellsword – a little long in the tooth and light of hair, but one of my preferred mercenaries as he’s tough, stalwart and stays bought.”

            The vagrant nodded in relief. If she was going to go through with this – and if she didn’t, she suspected she’d be driven from Haafingar by an unhappy Falk and Elisif – she might as well take a mercenary who actually knew how to fight. “I’ll hire him in the morning,” she promised.

            “Thank you.” Elisif’s voice was raw with gratitude as dessert was brought out. Sweet rolls covered in juniper and jazbay sauce, sweet and bitter all at once. Gytha ate until she was almost full, knowing that if she stuffed the last mouthful into her stomach, she’d puke it up again.

            The Thanes left shortly after, citing the late hour and need to return home, and Gytha found herself alone with Elisif – as alone as a Jarl could be with huscarl and servants in the room – as Falk departed to use the privy and Sybille Stentor, the court wizard, went to scry the seas for signs of Stormcloaks.

            “I’m sorry Erikur put you on the spot like that,” the fine-boned redhead apologised sincerely. “He’s an ass, but he’s a wealthy ass who understands trade.”

            “I know how that is,” Gytha agreed fervently. “I’ve been screwed over by folk like him for most of my life.”

            Elisif grimaced sympathetically. She seemed like a nice enough woman, if painfully naïve. “Thane Bryling means well but her line is almost as old as my late husband Torygg’s and she seems to think that makes her more suitable than Erikur to be my chief advisor when Falk steps down.”

            Gytha shrugged. “I think she’s loyal to you, if only because she loves your Steward.”

            “You saw that too?” Elisif giggled like a girl sharing a confidence with a friend. “Erikur holds a bit of a grudge for her because she refused his suit. Just goes to show the woman has excellent taste in men, because if not for Falk, I would have been lost in grief and Haafingar a shambles after Torygg died.”

            “I saw Roggvir kissing the headsman’s bride as I entered Solitude,” Gytha said slowly, noting that Elisif’s eyes shone with unshed tears.

            “I would have been there to watch it but Falk felt it was beneath my dignity as Jarl and rightful High Queen of Skyrim,” Elisif observed bitterly. “Ulfric Shouted my husband to death in front of the entire court and I couldn’t even watch the execution of the gate guard who let him escape!”

            Gytha patted her forearm awkwardly. “I’m sure General Tullius will give you a front-row seat at Ulfric’s execution, my Jarl.”

            “He won’t even meet me whenever I ask him to,” Elisif said sadly, sniffling. “’Too busy with the war’, he said.”

            “Maybe you could try the Penitus Oculatus?” Gytha suggested cautiously. “I know that Commander Maro and son have set themselves up in Dragon Bridge.”

            Elisif’s eyes brightened. “That’s brilliant! They answer directly to the Emperor – and Commander Maro is almost as closely related to Titus Mede as Vittoria Vici.”

            “Let me guess, you’d like me to carry word to them,” Gytha noted ruefully.

            “You _are_ heading that way,” Elisif pointed out dryly just before Falk re-entered the dining room.

            “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging quarters for our honoured guest,” he announced calmly.

            _Wait, what? I’m going to sleep in the Blue Palace?_ Gytha coughed awkwardly and said, “That isn’t necessary, but thank you.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Elisif told her. “You’re a guest of the Jarl of Solitude, one who has agreed to undertake a possibly dangerous task. The least we can do is provide a comfortable bed.”

            And so Gytha found herself chivvied to a guest room in the Blue Palace by Erdi, the servant in brown linen who’d served them, and put into a nightgown of soft Whiterun cotton after being bathed in lavender-scented water. The woman tsked over Julienne’s old boots and provided calf-high ones of black leather trimmed with wolf’s fur as Gytha watched bemusedly from the copper bathtub brought into the bedroom.

            Before exhaustion claimed her, her last thought was _What the fuck have I gotten myself into?_


	2. The Woman Who Cried Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death and violence.

Belrand was an older man, his hair balding at the top and long in the back, who wore iron plate with negligent ease and had arms that were thicker than Gytha’s thighs. He counted through the purse of septims that she handed him – supplemented by Taarie’s gift of septims as Elisif’s order ranged in the thousands – and pocketed half. “My fees are five hundred septims a job,” he told her quietly. “That’s the standard cost of an experienced mercenary.”

            “Thane Bryling told me you were one of the best, so I’m taking her advice,” Gytha told him as she folded her arms. “We’re investigating Wolfskull Cave on behalf of Falk Firebeard – strange lights and sounds have been coming from it, things I’ve observed myself, and that place used to be where Potema did a lot of nasty magics.”

            Belrand nodded firmly. “Let me settle my bill with Corpulus and I’ll meet you outside.”

            Gytha echoed the nod and headed for the door of the Winking Skeever, only to be intercepted by Sorex. “Thanks for running that rum up to Falk Firebeard,” he told her quietly. “I never would have heard the end of it otherwise.”

            She shrugged awkwardly. “It’s alright.”

            “If you need a bed for the night, you’re always welcome to stay for free,” Sorex murmured. “I work the night shift, so Father won’t mind.”

            “Umm, thanks,” Gytha said, wondering why his tone was suddenly warm.

            “No worries.” Sorex smiled again before returning to the bar.

            Outside, Gytha handed a septim to Noster Eagle-Eye, who thanked her with the sort of raw gratitude she knew only too well. This charade of hers likely wouldn’t last long but while it did, she’d do her best by her fellow beggars and itinerants.

            Belrand emerged soon after, looking over her plain dress thoughtfully. “Are you a mage?” he asked.

            “No,” Gytha admitted. “I just walked into the Blue Palace and got stuck with the job.”

            The spellsword laughed. “Sounds like Falk. Come with me to Beirand at Castle Dour and I’ll help you choose some light armour.”

            Beirand turned out to be a bald, cheerful blacksmith who forged for both the Solitude and Legion troops. “Your sword’s ready,” he assured Belrand as the mercenary climbed the ramp to his forge, followed by Gytha.

            “Good. My employer and I are checking out Wolfskull Cave on behalf of Falk Firebeard; she needs light armour and possibly a weapon.”

            The blacksmith ran his eyes assessingly over Gytha, who squirmed a little under that keen gaze. “What’s your budget?” he asked briskly.

            She opened her purse and poured out all the coin. He quickly counted out the septims, which were still more than Gytha could count, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You have the choice of new hide armour or some leather armour I repaired for a Bosmer adventurer who never came back for it.”

            “What’s cheaper?” Gytha asked bluntly.

            “The second-hand armour.” Beirand turned around and rummaged in the crates near his forge to produce a set of plain leathers, oiled to suppleness and with polished buckles; even with the subtle signs of repair work in the form of neat stitches here and there, the armour was well-made.

            “I’ll take it,” she confirmed.

            What followed was her stripping down to her shift as Beirand measured her up using a knotted rope. “Scrawny as a weed but fine muscle tone,” the blacksmith noted. “Work for a living?”

            “Whatever’s honest and puts a septim in my pocket,” Gytha admitted cautiously.

            “We could use more sorts like you around here. My Salma’s honest enough, but some of the other people like that wretched Jaree-Ra…” Beirand shook his head in disgust. “Still, Falk Firebeard has an eye for talent and Jarl Elisif could use all the friends she can get.”

            The leather was soon adjusted to her body, the matching bracers and boots too small for her but Beirand throwing in hide ones that could be tightened easily enough. “Come back from Wolfskull Cave and I’ll have leather ones made to your size,” he promised. “Now, what’s your preferred weapon?”

            “Axe,” she said, choosing the implement most like the woodcutter’s axe she was most used to.

            Beirand scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “No ranged weapons?”

            “The sling, mostly, though I’ve handled a longbow.”

            The blacksmith added a simple hunting bow and quiver of iron arrows. “Came from bandits up north,” he told her. “Not the best quality, but enough to get you by – strange lights and noises generally mean draugr, skeletons and necromancers, none of which wear much in the way of armour.”

            Gytha nodded, slinging the bow and quiver awkwardly over her shoulders, and found herself handed a well-balanced iron axe. “I could give you a steel axe that hasn’t been sharpened, but the iron with the keen edge will bite deeper,” Beirand said as he turned to scoop up all of her money. “Bring it back to me when you’re done and I’ll teach you how to hone it properly yourself.”

            “Thanks,” Belrand told him.

            “No, thank _you_. I’m a Jarl’s man and Lady Elisif needs all the help she can get.” Beirand smiled and returned to his work.

            Belrand marched her out of Solitude and led her down the hill, stopping by the Khajiit camp. “You’ll need a proper backpack,” he told Gytha as one of the furry creatures greeted them with a smile. “I’ll show you how to pack everything properly.”

            Trading her last few septims with the sharp Ma’dran, Gytha packed her bow, quiver, clothing and a couple healing potions Belrand handed to her. She _looked_ like an adventurer now, though she was just pretending to be one.

            Once they were downhill away from eavesdroppers, Gytha turned to Belrand. “I need to run a message to Dragon Bridge,” she told him.

            “Get the job done first and we can stay at the Four Shields,” the mercenary promptly advised. “I don’t want to walk up that hill after a day of fighting.”

            “…Alright then.” Gytha sincerely hoped that she actually survived to keep her promise to Elisif.

            They turned off at the path which led to Meridia’s statue, a Daedric Prince honoured for Her connection to the life-giving sun, and near Wolfskull Cave Gytha dropped into a crouch as soon as she heard the creak of old bones. Belrand followed suit, peering through the trees and snowberry bushes, cupping both hands to gather frost within them. They stalked forward, time narrowing to the crawl of half-frozen honey, until the spellsword gestured and unleashed icy spears.

            They struck the skeletons simultaneously, turning them into heaps of old bones as the magic that bound them together was shattered, and Belrand nodded grimly. “Necromancers,” he said in a whisper. “Unlimber your bow and keep an arrow in your hand. The more we take out unnoticed, the better.”

            “Aren’t we supposed to go in, axes waving and screaming battle-cries?” Gytha asked dryly.

            “Do I look like a Companion? Besides, we’re facing opponents without honour who will raise our corpses to do their bidding. Better an arrow in a necromancer’s back than eternity as a walking corpse with my soul stored in a soul gem.”

            Gytha could hardly argue with that, so she obeyed Belrand and crept into the cave.

            The first skeleton loomed up before her, blocked by hanging rusty chains, and faded memories led her to nock the arrow and fire. It was a weak shot that struck the skeleton more through luck than skill, but it was still enough to destroy the unholy creature.

            “Good shot,” Belrand whispered into her ear. “Let’s go.”

            By the time they reached the two necromancers sitting down on a log grilling leeks over an open fire, she was ready to pull the arrow back to behind her ear and release it, striking the female in the back. She staggered forward and fell facedown into the fire as the male rose to his feet, an ice spike jutting from one eye as Belrand cast.

            Searching the corpses produced two enchanted robes that the spellsword stuffed into his pack, a few alchemical ingredients and a small bag of septims that he tossed to Gytha. “You’ve paid my fee,” he told her. “Anything else will be a bonus you decide upon.”

            Given that he was doing half the work, paying him the extra coin seemed fair to Gytha, earning a smile from the mercenary.

            A draugr needed to be killed, Belrand gathering bone dust from its skull, and then they descended into the deepest part of Wolfskull Cave.

            Violet-black light twined serpentine around the cave as the necromancers called upon Potema.

            “This is worse than we thought,” Belrand said softly after smashing a draugr in the face with his gauntleted fist. “No matter what, we can’t let them release the Wolf Queen.”

            Sensing the urgency in his voice, Gytha nodded, telling her bladder that now wasn’t the time to release its contents.

            They used stealth for as long as they could, wiping out half the draugr and two necromancers before someone realised there were intruders. Belrand rose from the crouch, drew the sword Beirand had repaired, and began laying into their enemies with blade in one hand and flame in the other.

            Gytha flailed at the necromancers, cutting them down like stubborn bushes as frost and lightning danced across her skin, hurting but not debilitating. Her father had come from the Reach after all.

            They fought their way up the stairs to where the ritual was being held as Potema exhorted the necromancers to release her even as she mocked their ability to bind her. Her voice was cruel and haughty, making Gytha shudder in fear though Belrand’s eyes simply glittered determinedly in the uncanny light.

            They reached the top where four necromancers, including an old woman with grandmotherly features who glowed violet-black, turned to face the intruders. “Stop them!” she commanded, holding her position with arms stretched wide.

            Belrand made straight for her, face twisted in anger, as Gytha was left to deal with the other three acolytes.

            She suddenly screamed, pouring out all of her fear and rage, and the Battle-Cry drove the Dunmer necromancer to run off the tower top and fall with a wet thud below. That left two, both of whom called frost and lightning with cruel smirks as they closed in on Gytha.

            She gripped her war axe with both hands and raised it over her head like the woodcutter’s axe when she cut lumber, bringing it down with all her strength on the male necromancer’s head. The skull caved in, he dropped without a sound, making the female Breton necromancer flinch back. That was enough for Gytha to charge her, knocking her back until she stumbled over the tower top’s low edge and sent her body to join that of her Dunmer colleague’s.

            When she turned to help Belrand, she saw the spellsword glowing violet-black with an elven dagger sheathed in his gut, the ritual master smiling coldly as she lifted a black soul gem.

            “No!” Gytha charged the ritual master, only to be flung back by a careless wave of the woman’s hand. Winded with every breath producing stabbing pain because ribs cracked when she hit the stone, the beggar rose to her feet, determined to save Belrand from a fate worse than death even if it killed her.

            Now engrossed on drawing the spellsword’s soul from his body to complete the ritual, the mage missed Gytha struggling to her knees and pulling her bow and an arrow from her back. Working through the agony and bladder-inducing fear, the beggar nocked the arrow and fired, just missing the ritual master.

            The sound of the arrowhead hitting stone distracted the mage; as she glanced at Gytha, half-raising her hand to fling her off the tower or something, she looked away from Belrand. It was her last mistake as the spellsword grabbed her head and twisted. Even through the noise of the uncanny necromantic winds, the sound of her snapping neck was audible.

            The spell died as the ritual master did, violet-black light bursting out to disappear into the cavern walls. Gytha healed herself enough to ease the pain of her broken ribs before stumbling towards a still-glowing Belrand.

            Golden light, a healing spell, swirled about him as he pulled the dagger from his gut. It fell to the stone with a clatter as he slumped forward, no longer violet-black in hue but blood pouring from his mouth.

            “Good… job,” he rasped. “There’s a decent… sellsword… in you.”

            “I can’t heal you and our healing potions aren’t strong enough,” Gytha told him sadly. “I’m sorry.”

            “Why? Always a risk of death… on a job.” Belrand managed a smile as the light of the soul trap spell slowly faded away. “Saved Solitude from the Wolf Queen. Good way to go for an old spellsword.”

            His eyes closed and he slumped forward. Moments later the golden light of healing faded from his body.

            Gytha buried her face in her hands and found herself crying. A good man had died today, believing she was something she wasn’t – a young would-be adventurer instead of a vagrant.

            Then she wiped her eyes and pragmatically gathered everything useful she could, using branches from the withered trees to create a rough travois. Placing Belrand’s body on it with the rest of the loot from the necromancers, she dragged it from Wolfskull Cave, intent on giving him a decent burial.

…

Jarl Elisif the Fair of Solitude placed old silver coins on the eyes of the mercenary who’d died saving Solitude from a resurrected Potema the Wolf Queen, ignoring the huff of displeasure from Falk Firebeard. She and Gytha, who stood stone-faced and wet-eyed at the foot of the pyre, would serve in place of whatever kinsfolk Belrand might have had once and see him conducted with honour to Sovngarde.

            Styrr, the Priest of Arkay, handed them both torches. Solemnly, she and Gytha set fire to the pyre as he intoned the prayers for the dead, scented smoke spiralling into the cold blue sky of Kynareth’s domain to guide Belrand to Sovngarde. Elisif liked to think Torygg would greet the man who’d helped save Solitude and have someone at his back when the end of days came.

            Beirand the blacksmith bowed his head and echoed their prayers as Thane Bryling, the woman who’d recommended Belrand to Gytha, raised her sword in salute. Falk settled for looking both solemn and irritated that he was here instead of going over the plans for Solitude’s defence with Bryling. That’s if they were actually doing so, because nothing knew ever came of these ‘private discussions’. Elisif didn’t understand why the two just wouldn’t admit their love for each other and get married.

            Gytha, wearing a drab dress that Elisif wouldn’t put her pot girl in with its ragged hem, watched the pyre become ashes as the scented oil thrown onto it swiftly consumed Belrand’s body. The Jarl had insisted on a hero’s funeral for the spellsword and Bryling had matched her and Gytha’s donations to the Temple of Arkay with one of her own. When it was over, the adventurer reached into the pyre and smeared ashes across her cheeks, the oldest way to show her grief.

            Everyone dispersed after that, leaving Elisif, Gytha and Bolgeir at the pyre. Her huscarl studiously turned his back to watch for dangers and allow them a moment of private grief.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t get that letter delivered,” Gytha apologised hoarsely.

            “I understand. It’s not _urgent_ , not like giving a good man a decent funeral,” Elisif assured the adventurer.

            “Belrand wanted to visit Dragon Bridge after we’d dealt with Wolfskull Cave. Said he wasn’t up to walking back to Solitude after a day of fighting.” Gytha sniffed, expression sorrowful.

            Elisif smiled sadly. “His name will go on the records as a hero of Solitude and Torygg will welcome him to Sovngarde with a raised mug.”

            “I hope so.” Gytha hugged herself, looking vulnerable as a cold wind gusted from the Sea of Ghosts. She didn’t much look like the well-travelled adventurer who’d eaten with the delicacy of a noblewoman and remained silent but for a few pointed comments in Erikur’s direction at the moment. Elisif supposed that fighting necromancers and losing a friend to them would make anyone appear raw and grieving. Only the gods knew how she looked while watching Torygg be murdered by Ulfric.

            “If not for that barbarian renegade Ulfric, we would have had the soldiers to send,” the Jarl said bitterly. “How can he let his thirst for power overwhelm his sense of honour?”

            “A lot of people mistake ambition for honour,” Gytha said sagely. “And some just dispense with the pretence of honour altogether.”

            Elisif nodded in agreement, thanking Mara and Stendarr that this woman had stumbled into her court when she was needed the most. Falk and Bryling, for all their loyalty, didn’t want to rock the boat while Erikur made no secret of the fact he held greater faith in General Tullius. The Jarl of Solitude recognised that the man had the best interests of Skyrim in heart, she just wished he would spare some time to show her how to rule properly and earn the respect of others.

            _Gytha is probably the only one who doesn’t call me ‘my Jarl’ with either mockery or condescension,_ she reflected sourly as she pulled Torygg’s horn from her robe. Now was the best time to ask another favour of Gytha, who’d proven herself to be both wise and trustworthy.

            “When Torygg died, I made offerings to all the gods but Talos,” she told the adventurer, who had questions in her eyes. “You’ve proven yourself trustworthy and… I’d like you to take this horn to the Shrine of Talos northeast of Whiterun in the tradition of my late husband’s lineage. I would go myself, but…”

            “The way there passes closer to the Pale than you’d like, especially with Jarl Skald treating Ulfric as the second coming of Talos,” Gytha finished with a grimace. “If he got his hands on you, you’d be gift-wrapped and sent to Ulfric as a captive bride so the Jarl of Windhelm could cement his claim on Skyrim’s throne in the old manner of ‘kill your predecessor and marry his widow’.”

            Elisif shuddered at the mere thought of enduring Ulfric with his cold eyes and colder ruthlessness, one which hadn’t occurred to her. It seemed that unlike Falk and Bryling, Gytha wasn’t afraid to speak harsh and unpleasant truths to her, which was exactly what Elisif needed in her court.

            “Exactly,” Elisif agreed. “I’m sorry to ask this so soon after Belrand’s death, but…”

            _But I need someone I can trust, someone who obviously understands people like you do,_ she thought desperately.

            Gytha sighed dejectedly. “I know where the shrine is. I’ll take the horn.”

            Elisif embraced the startled adventurer. “Thank you!”

            She quickly released Gytha as the woman reflexively wiped her hands on the grimy dress. Elisif supposed that if an adventurer needed a mourning dress – or just something comfortable to wear or work in – the garment was suitable enough, especially since a wandering sellsword could only carry so much that wasn’t armour and arms, but she hated the idea of someone helping her out wearing something little better than rags. At least Erdi had found her a proper pair of boots.

            _When she becomes Thane, I’ll present her with appropriate robes,_ Elisif decided. “I insist you stay at the Palace again,” she said aloud. “I need a full report on the Potema situation regardless and we will raise a mug to Belrand’s memory…”

            Gytha nodded and assumed a place at Elisif’s right shoulder as Bolgeir took the left. Soon the Jarl of Solitude intended to enter the Blue Palace like this, two stalwarts at her side, as High Queen in truth. With Bolgeir’s loyalty and Gytha’s obvious understanding of human nature, she would rule Skyrim wisely and justly.


	3. Assumptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death, violence and fantastic racism.

Wearing leather armour made by a master craftsman and a hooded cloak of black wolf fur enchanted against the weather that Elisif pressed upon her, Gytha passed through Dragon Bridge with nary a comment from the locals. When she climbed up to the doors of the Penitus Oculatus outpost and knocked briskly, everyone quickly found reasons to look away, something that twisted her heart. Yes, Faida had all but run her out of town, but you didn’t live for most of a year in a small town without forging tight emotional bonds with its people. Now they assumed she was a spy or agent, perhaps a sellsword like Belrand, who was dangerous enough to approach the Emperor’s security force without fear.

            It was Commander Maro who opened the door, wearing the silver-trimmed red tunic of the Penitus Oculatus and a finely forged belt-knife. “Can I help you?” he asked brusquely.

            In answer, Gytha silently produced the letter sealed and written by Elisif’s own hand.

            Maro took it, broke the red wax seal, and scanned the parchment with a thoughtful expression. “So Elisif wants to set up a direct line of communication to the Emperor that doesn’t involve General Tullius? And here rumour painted her as the esteemed General’s puppet, not a woman intelligent enough to set up her own information network while stricken with grief for her beloved husband.”

            _Information network? I told her about you arriving in Dragon Bridge three days ago!_

            The Commander tapped the letter against his hand with the same thoughtful expression, dark eyes staring at Gytha keenly. “Well-worn but excellently made armour, care taken to conceal your identity without looking out of place on a Skyrim road and obvious familiarity with the countryside. I didn’t expect an agent of such calibre to be operating in Skyrim, at least on Elisif’s behalf…”

            “That’s between me and the Jarl of Solitude,” Gytha responded curtly, hoping against hope he didn’t recognise her. Elisif was a lovely woman who didn’t need to be embarrassed by discovering her ‘agent’ was a beggar in disguise.

            Maro nodded, taking her answer calmly. “Of course. And I suppose that any name you give me will be a false one. Come inside and help yourself to some food while I pen a reply to the Jarl.”

            Gytha shook her head quickly. “No, thanks. I’ll collect the letter on my way back from my current… mission.”

            The Commander looked unsurprised. “I guess with the war against the Stormcloaks heating up, speed is of the essence. Take one of the horses-“

            “Bad idea. Bandits _might_ leave a well-armed traveller alone if she’s on foot, but someone on horse who isn’t wearing steel plate or fine furs sticks out like a sore thumb on the roads I’ll be taking,” Gytha hastily answered. “Besides, speed and stealth are better than a fast horse any day.”

            Maro relaxed and Gytha realised she’d passed a subtle test. “You _do_ know your craft. I wonder if I can talk Jarl Elisif into lending you for a mission or two. My son and I know how to set up security in the cities but there’s a job or two for a skilled agent in places where a Penitus Oculatus agent would… how did you put it? ‘Stick out like a sore thumb’.”

            “That would be up to the Jarl,” Gytha answered noncommittally.

            “Of course, of course.” Maro rummaged in his pocket and produced a small bag of coins. “I know Elisif will reward you more generously on your return to Solitude but this letter has aided the Empire more than you realise. Please, accept this token of my gratitude.”

            _The nobility are certainly free with the coin,_ Gytha mused as she quickly counted out the septims, which had been subtly clipped and remilled. “Paying in shaved septims now, Commander Maro?”

            “What-“ The Commander took the bag from her and examined the coins, frowning darkly. “You’re right. Damn, how did you notice that?”

            “The milling on the septim’s edge is usually finer,” Gytha said, wondering if she was digging a hole for herself. “Whoever clipped those coins used a coin-maker that’s probably used to punch the silver coins we use for the dead in Skyrim.”

            “Dial,” Maro corrected absently. “It’s called a dial.”

            “Do I look like a coiner to you?” Gytha observed dryly.

            “Of course not.” The Commander gave her a cool smile of approval. “Since it seems that the latest pay chest might be debased, I fear I can’t offer you the appropriate fee for a courier. Is there anything you need?”

            “Journeyfood,” Gytha answered swiftly. “I won’t be able to stop and forage like I usually do…”

            Maro’s eyebrow rose. “That urgent, is it? Well…” He turned around and snapped a few orders to the agents inside, a small rucksack of Legion rations soon handed to Gytha by his son, who regarded her with cool appraisal. “It’s standard scout rations – smoked meat, journey bars and salt. Tough as old boots but still edible.”

            Gytha took the rucksack with a grateful smile. “Commander, you don’t know roughing it until you’re frying strips of bark on a stone in winter.”

            “Good gods, is that what people eat in Skyrim?” Maro shook his head with a pained grimace.

            “It’s rather tasty, especially when compared to standard Legion rations.” Gytha allowed herself a wry grin. “I’m glad you didn’t give me the beans – no time to cook and one wrong noise at the wrong time…”

            Maro grimaced again. “I lost an agent because the man loved pickled cabbage. I know exactly what you mean.”

            The Commander pushed away from the door, giving a polite nod to Gytha. “Akatosh guard you and I’ll have my reply to Jarl Elisif by the time you return.”

            “Gods watch over your battles,” Gytha answered before turning for the road. She had a long walk ahead of her.

…

“Damn, she’s _good_ , Father,” Gaius observed as he returned to sharpening his gladius.

            “Indeed,” Maro agreed as he walked over to his own bed, a sad thing of straw-stuffed, fur-wrapped mattress on a rough wooden frame, and sat down to start writing on his lap-desk. It was better than the fur pallets that Tullius made the Skyrim auxiliaries sleep on but he missed his wide, comfortable bed back home in Cheydinhal. “Better than good. You know why?”

            “Why?” his son asked confusedly.

            “Because I only recognise her vaguely. Most of the so-called master spies, especially those amongst the Blades, were recognisable because they had distinctive features, ways of dressing and mannerisms. Such things might make for a good Breton spy novel, but in the real world, they get people killed.” Maro found parchment, quill and ink to pen his reply to Elisif.

            “Whereas that woman was wearing near rags two days and spent eight months in Dragon Bridge as a vagrant to establish herself as unnoticeable to most of the locals,” Gaius observed shrewdly.

            Maro put his quill down, staring at his son. “How did you figure that out?”

            “Faida sent Julienne with a bit of coin to send the woman on her way,” the younger man answered as he honed his sword. “And then Azzada came in and gave her a piece of his mind about sending the woman off without so much as a decent set of clothing and boots. That night, a well-dressed woman presented herself to Jarl Elisif and is quickly entrusted with a mission to deal with a dangerous coven of necromancers. Falk’s been trying to cover it up but rumours have leaked out that they were trying to resurrect Potema.”

            Maro allowed himself a shudder. “That explains Elisif’s holding that funeral for the spellsword.”

            “Yes. Gytha – to give her the name that Dragon Bridge knows her by, Gytha Bark-Shod – was there too. Even smeared ashes on her face for this Belrand.” The rasp of whetstone on steel was soothing, almost hypnotic, though it would set a non-warrior’s teeth on edge. “Within three days, she has earned the respect of several important people in Solitude, including Jarl Elisif, Falk Firebeard, Thane Bryling and even our agent. She even put Thane Erikur in his place.”

            The Commander of the Penitus Oculatus grimaced at the thought of the Thalmor toady. Even Stormcloaks, honest in their ambition and barbarity, were better than that one. “Her accent was difficult to place,” he noted.

            Gaius paused, expression thoughtful. “I’d almost call it High Rock, but it’s got the Skyrim hoarseness to it.”

            “Druadach,” one of the Nord agents said as he repaired his armour at a nearby bed. “Reachman, you’d call it. You can find Reach Nords on both sides of the border.”

            “And Elisif comes from Evermore,” Gaius added, sounding satisfied. “You know the Reachfolk are clannish, even when civilised.”

            Maro nodded, several things falling into place now. No Reachman, Nord or Breton, would be a friend to Ulfric Stormcloak and Elisif, daughter of the Count of Evermore’s second Nord wife, would respond positively to that accent. No doubt the pretty redhead had been spending most of her four-year marriage to Torygg deciphering the undercurrents of Skyrim’s politics before acting, even if she had been thrown off-balance by his murder at Ulfric Stormcloak’s plans, and decided to set particular plans in motion now that an agent from her own hills had joined her cause.

            “Mutual enemies in the form of Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebels,” Gaius continued, returning to honing his sword. “My agent noted that Elisif is eager to cultivate Gytha’s loyalty, no doubt as a counterbalance to Falk’s acquiescence to General Tullius’ influence and Erikur’s Thalmor-backed ambition.”

            “Do you think she’s Forsworn?” Maro asked thoughtfully. If he could recruit those howling barbarians…

            “No. Any Nord child born amongst them is sacrificed to their dark gods,” the Nord agent answered grimly. “At least amongst the east. In the west, they’re dumped in Evermore’s orphanage.”

            Maro raised an eyebrow and the man smiled thinly. “Born and bred in Markarth,” was the reply. “Madanach might have been alright in the beginning but when the Empire sent Ulfric in, the Forsworn stopped being nice.”

            “Ulfric has a way of bringing out the worst of people in the name of Talos,” Maro agreed grimly. “Tullius needs to bring him to heel quickly or the Empire will bleed out in Skyrim.”

            The Commander had some thoughts on that, if Elisif’s agent proved as competent as she appeared and the Jarl was willing to lend her for a few missions…

…

The plains of Whiterun were the same yellow-green they’d always been, dotted with ruins, bandit camps, wandering animals and a few meagre trees. Making good time through Rorikstead after swimming downstream to avoid Robber’s Gorge, Gytha went overland to cut her travelling time – if she did well, she could pick some crops at Pelagia Farm for Severio and get a meal before going up to the old Shrine of Talos in the mountains that divided Whiterun Hold from the Pale.

            Two hours later she was munching quite cheerfully on a half-loaf of bread smeared with goat’s cheese as Severio mended a hoe. “I see you’ve taken up adventuring,” the farmer noted.

            “No adventures, just doing a few small errands for people,” Gytha corrected. Severio and the other farmers in Whiterun, but for Nazeem the Redguard, were pretty decent people. It was a shame she had bitter memories of the Hold that made it hard to remain here.

            “I won’t ask,” Severio said, eyes narrowed. “Thanks for the help with the crops.”

            His sudden shift in attitude, the almost curt dismissal, surprised Gytha and she shoved the rest of her meal into her mouth. What had she said that was wrong?

            Her moderately good mood spoilt, Gytha grabbed her pack and stood up, breaking into the ground-eating jog that allowed her to go past Honningbrew Meadery and turn north at the bridge. If she reached the Shrine of Talos by mid-afternoon, she would be back in Whiterun by dark with the coin to hire a room at the Bannered Mare.

            Two wolves tore at a deer, bringing it down; while they were occupied, Gytha ran past, hoping they wouldn’t scent her. She wasn’t able to fight off a couple wolves.

            She passed the cave everyone knew was full of Falmer, feeling the thrill of fear run down her spine, and then found the small pass which led to the Shrine’s spot. Taking a deep breath, feeling her comfortable boots crunch on the eternal snow this high up, she rummaged in her backpack for the horn and approached the small altar, tended even now despite the elves making it illegal.

            “Aha! Another Talos worshipper!” Gytha dropped the horn as the haughty Altmer accent all but gloated in her ear. “Execute her.”

            She dove for the ground as lightning struck where her head had been, leaving a blackened mark on the statue of Talos. At least they were going to kill her instead of dragging her off to be tortured!

            Gytha rolled to her feet, having learned how to fall properly years ago, and pulled her iron war axe from her belt. Two Altmer, a man in wizard’s robes and a woman in the Thalmor’s black armour, approached menacingly. “Give up now,” the wizard advised calmly. “You are a dog and I am your master.”

            “Sorry, I’m not into that sort of thing,” Gytha retorted, hoping her voice didn’t sound _too_ terrified.

            It took a moment for the meaning to sink in before the Altmer snarled at her and pulled his dagger. The goldskins really hated being told they liked to fuck humans, what with their whole racial purity thing.

            The thing was that he forgot to use magic and attacked her with a weapon. Gytha swung the axe on his forearm, severing the dagger-bearing hand, and grabbed the screaming mer just as the armoured woman drew near. Some desperate manoeuvring saw the warrior bury her golden sword in his body, cutting off the screams, and trap her weapon there. Throwing her meagre Flames spell around like she was trying to start a forest fire, Gytha managed to turn the Justicar’s face into fried steak before smashing her head in with the iron war axe.

            Once she’d finished vomiting (and covering it up with snow), she stripped the corpses of their armour and other expensive things, and dragged them into the bushes. Then she found the horn, shook it to remove the snow… and blinked when a rolled-up letter fell out.

            Putting the horn on the altar, Gytha opened the letter to find a note penned in a neat loopy style:

            _Gytha, I’m sorry to use something as sacred as a tradition of my late husband’s family as a means to get you to carry a message, but I need you to go to Dragonsreach and inform Jarl Balgruuf the Greater that I accept his conditions. He will know what I mean. Destroy this note when you’ve read it. Elisif._

Bemusedly, she obeyed, calling fire to turn it into little bits of ash that were lost in the snow. Then it was time to trudge back to Whiterun, wondering what exactly had she stumbled into.

…

“Jarl Balgruuf?”

            The ruler of Whiterun spun around, putting a hand to the hilt of his sword, as the soft Reach-accented woman’s voice broke the silence of a dusk-shrouded Great Porch. “Who’s there?” he demanded, voice sharp to conceal the sudden chill of fear. No Nord was fearful of death, unless it was the straw-death, the sea-death or the winter-death, but dying to an assassin would deny him Sovngarde… and leave his Hold vulnerable to Ulfric _and_ the Empire.

            The cloaked figure who emerged from the shadows was taller than the Forsworn he expected but too thin to be an emissary of the Silver-Bloods, who preferred warriors or those fat from serving them. Balgruuf dealt with both parties as necessary to keep trade flowing through his Hold but this woman, with her suntanned skin, right cheek cross-hatched with terrible scars, and luminous green eyes with a few strands of brown hair falling around a heart-shaped face, belonged to neither faction.

            “Jarl Elisif accepts your conditions,” she announced calmly.

            Balgruuf relinquished his grip on his sword, allowing himself to relax somewhat. “General Tullius sees sense at last, I see.”

            “The General has nothing to do with this,” the agent corrected with a frown.

            The Jarl couldn’t hide the tight grin that crossed his face. The would-be High Queen was beginning to lay the groundwork for her independence as a ruler. While the Jarls of Skyrim were often happy to give their allegiance to the Emperor, it was also expected that the High King (or Queen) be strong enough to stand for them in the Elder Council. Rumours had painted Elisif as another puppet-ruler, much as Torygg had been, but it seems the Jarl of Solitude was taking baby steps – right under Tullius’ nose – to ensure otherwise.

            “That is good to hear,” he informed her. “Tell Jarl Elisif I would be pleased to accept her offer of marriage to my brother once the mourning period for Torygg is done… and that I compliment her on the choice of agent. You managed to sneak past my huscarl’s patrols; thank the Divines you’re on our side.”

            A flicker of surprise showed in those green eyes – spies were rarely complimented – before she asked, “What patrols? I just walked in and walked up here.”

            Balgruuf coughed, trying not to laugh at the deadpan tone that surely hid a professional’s wry amusement. “When you meet Irileth at the wedding reception, please don’t tell her that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

            “Of course, Jarl Balgruuf.” The agent put her fist to her shoulder and faded back into the shadows.

            Balgruuf turned his back and looked to the rising moons, allowing himself a broad grin. In return for the trade deals, Hrongar would finally settle down and marry Elisif, who was proving herself to be shrewder than he expected. Skyrim might just finally prove to the Colovians that it wasn’t a haven of barbarians after all.

            _Nord blood built the Empire and Nord blood sustains it,_ he reminded himself as he went to give his brother the news of his impending nuptials.

           


	4. Fighting One Queen for Another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for violence and death.

There were days when Falk Firebeard hated his job and today was one of them. First Sybille had made pointed references to his relationship with Bryling at court, then General Tullius told the Steward he’d see Elisif when he was good and ready before making his usual demands for all the surplus food Haafingar had managed to find, and finally Styrr, the Priest of Arkay, had brought grim news from the catacombs of Solitude. He’d fobbed them all off with the usual Steward’s platitudes, learned from observing Raerek and Proventus Avenicci at past Moots, and went to stare broodingly at the accounts without actually doing them.

            “Falk?”

            Elisif’s voice, soft and sweet, drew him from his brooding. Falk looked over his shoulder at his kinswoman, clad in her formal robes with her ruby-set copper circlet confining her shoulder-length red hair, and sighed. “What is it, your Grace?”

            “Gytha’s back. Balgruuf has agreed to my request.”

            The Steward rose to his feet hurriedly, nearly knocking over his bottle of Black-Briar Mead. “But I haven’t been able to speak to the General about it,” he said in some surprise.

            Elisif’s eyes glittered like a young girl who’d managed to pull off a bit of mischief. “Since the General has been giving us the run around, and since my duty as High Queen is to handle the diplomatic part of ruling Skyrim, I sent Gytha to carry a message to the Jarl of Whiterun.”

            _Ah, Gytha._ For all the young woman claimed to be a poor nobody with the manners of a goat, for all she’d lived as a virtual vagrant in Dragon Bridge for much of the past year, Falk knew a freelance agent, perhaps of noble birth on the bar sinister side, when he saw one. Her manners were too refined, almost High Rock in their delicacy, and she had the discretion that the nouveau riche Erikur decidedly lacked except when she was putting the arrogant Thane in his place. Within less than a week, she had established herself as a person of good standing in Solitude, showing that she wasn’t too proud to run simple errands, and boosted Elisif’s self-esteem considerably. Bryling spoke well of her, noting her honour in making sure her retainer Belrand had a funeral worthy of a hero who’d helped save Solitude; Falk’s only objection was that Elisif put herself at risk by attending when a token would have been enough.

            _Hmm, perhaps an impoverished noble bastard?_ Falk rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully as Elisif looked at him expectantly. The Great War and the Silver-Bloods’ rise to power in the eastern Reach had eliminated many of the local noble families, those who had been spared by Madanach. It would explain the accent and her manners, as many of the Reach Nords had intermarried with western High Rock nobility to secure the Druadachs, which was how the Count of Evermore had taken a Nord wife to sire Elisif.

            “I suppose she’s the one responsible for Commander Maro insisting on speaking to you before General Tullius?” he asked quietly, showing his Jarl that he had his own information network. Such was how things happened in High Rock – everyone of note had their own agents – and he knew that once she broke through her grief and inexperience, Elisif would realise this.

            “Oh yes. She was wise enough to pick up the message on the way back to Solitude instead of carrying it to Whiterun,” Elisif confirmed. “Poor woman looks a little ragged though.”

            Falk sighed as he ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I wish I could allow her to rest, but Styrr came to me earlier. The ritual that Gytha and Belrand interrupted… It brought Potema half back into this realm. She’s haunting the catacombs and according to Styrr, Gytha is the only one who can banish her because there’s a link between them.”

            Elisif’s lips thinned with fear. “I sent her to bed, and if I recall my magical studies correctly, Potema is best confronted in daylight.”

            “Indeed,” Falk agreed. Elisif was thinking past her grief and hatred of Ulfric. This would make things easier when he stepped down at the end of the war. “Let her have her rest.”

            The Jarl sat down on the guest’s chair at his desk. “I know about you and Bryling. And if word gets out, I’ll back you.”

            _A secret for a secret._ Falk sighed in relief. “I intend to step down once the war is over, your Grace. There is still a conflict of interest.”

            “Nonsense, Falk.” Elisif’s tone was firm. “Gytha’s a lovely woman and a skilled agent, but I suspect that she hasn’t been half as educated as one of her rank deserves to be, so I doubt she can stand in as Steward.”

            “You picked up she was of noble birth too?” Falk asked, quickly changing the subject. He had never intended to be permanent Steward, only stand in until Torygg and Elisif could handle the duties of the throne themselves before returning to his mercantile business. “I suspect she’s from the families wiped out by the Thalmor and the Silver-Bloods in the Great War and its aftermath.”

            “I honestly thought she was an adventurer who’d picked up some graces,” Elisif admitted, looking chagrined. “Oh my, she must have been dreadfully insulted by my attitude!”

            “If she had been, she would have vanished after Belrand’s death,” Falk reassured the young Jarl. “If she’s a survivor of the troubles in the Reach, which is something I can hardly ask after without being incredibly rude, she’ll be no friend of the Stormcloaks.”

            “Enemy of my enemy?” Elisif asked quietly. “That… makes a lot of sense. I’m trying to win her loyalty. I need to appoint a Thane, not rely on those inherited from Torygg and Istlod – no offence to Bryling meant, you know what I mean – and she’d be perfect.”

            Falk nodded in agreement. Elisif _was_ trying to work through her grief and while Gytha no doubt had her share of faults – a certain discomfort in fine clothing being one of them – she would be a good counterbalance to Erikur’s blatant opportunism and Empire-toadying and Bryling’s criticisms of the Empire. “I will go through the armoury and see what enchanted goods can be spared,” he suggested thoughtfully. “If it can’t be used, Gytha will find a way to sell it and therefore raise the coin for Proudspire Manor all the more swiftly.”

            Paying for services in enchanted armour, weapons and jewellery was a tradition in High Rock, and while it might imply to some adventurers that the patron’s treasury was short of hard coin – often a problem in the wake of the Great War – someone of Gytha’s background would understand the cachet better than a simple mercenary.

            “Of course, Falk.” Elisif smiled in relief and rose to her feet. “I’ll leave those details to you. Make sure, if possible, some of that equipment involves protection against magic and the undead.”

            “I will, your Grace,” Falk promised.

            “Thank you.” Elisif left his room and Falk turned away from his accounts. The sooner appropriate gifts for Gytha’s service were arranged and Potema dealt with, the sooner he could return to the books.

…

 _Oh for the love of sweet Akatosh,_ Gytha thought as Falk delivered the news that she was to crawl through a catacomb on her own and deal with a half-resurrected Potema. _I should have refused Taarie’s offer._

But trapped as she was in the Jarl’s expectations – and owing the Wolf Queen for the loss of Belrand – she had no choice but to smile and nod. Falk Firebeard had managed to scrape together a mismatched set of light armour – mostly Imperial and leather – that gleamed with enchantment, a dwarven bow that shone deep reddish-orange with the promise of setting arrows alight, and an elven sword that held a blessing on it to banish the undead. She supposed it was something.

            Now armoured awkwardly and having traded most of her looted goods to Beirand, who insisted on giving her a good price, for better arrows, she stood before the door of the catacombs hoping that her meagre magicka could power the spell Styrr had given her. Otherwise the Wolf Queen, from the Priest of Arkay’s dire promises, would walk out wearing her corpse.

            _Not something to make me feel better,_ she thought as she opened the gate and entered the bowels of Solitude.

            This close to the lands of the living, the draugr and skeletons she encountered were weak, easily dispatched with a swing of the axe. That didn’t make her feel better, it just meant that things were going to get worse the further she descended.

            Of course, her worst fears were realised, especially when Potema started to taunt her. And a couple vampires, no doubt looking for an easy meal in the wake of the Wolf Queen’s ascension, decided to join in the festivities. Gytha flailed her sword around, making an idiot of herself and killing the undead through more luck than skill.

            She eventually reached the heart of Potema’s power to find the Wolf Queen’s ghost, clad in ragged robes not unlike Elisif’s, sitting on a throne surrounded by loads and loads of undead. “Not bad,” she observed scornfully. “But can you survive my inner council?”

            Three waves of draugr, most of them bigger and nastier than what the necromancers raised in Wolfskull Cave, followed – and Gytha ran out of magicka turning them back. Her elven sword ran out of enchantment and so she fell back to the iron war axe she was familiar with, hacking at the undead until they fell though their pitted weapons left numerous minor wounds on her bare flesh. Somehow she prevailed, Potema shrieking and fleeing through a door to her remains.

            Gytha stopped long enough to pick up a fine ebony war axe from the corpse of the biggest draugr there, one who’d worn the crown of a king, and went through the door. Time to end this for Belrand’s sake.

            It was almost over before it began, Potema’s ghost a weak frail thing after she’d expended so much of her power in raising the draugr. Gytha picked up the skull, crowned with a copper and ruby circlet like the one Elisif wore, and staggered towards the entrance with what loot she could carry. The old kings had been buried richly, which made for good pickings – or so Belrand had told her.

            Dusk had come by the time she reached the Hall of the Dead and handed the skull to Styrr. He sat her down, insisted she drink a healing potion and one to cure diseases, and went to sanctify the remains so Potema never could rise again.

            When he returned, the Priest’s expression was alight with the strange fervour all clerics had, an emotion Gytha really didn’t get because she was fairly certain the gods had better things to do than talk to mortals, and sank wearily into the seat facing her. “It is done,” he intoned solemnly. “Inform the Jarl that Potema is banished forever and aye.”

            She nodded and stood up. At least the Blue Palace wasn’t too far away.

            When she entered the Blue Palace, she saw Commander Maro and Captain Aldis talking quietly with Elisif and her huscarl Bolgeir. The trio looked in her direction, Elisif half-rising from her throne, as Gytha announced, “Potema’s dead… deader. Styrr says she won’t be coming back from… wherever evil undead queens are from.”

            Then she collapsed.

…

“You want to borrow my agent for _what_?”

            Elisif couldn’t help her voice rising as Commander Maro made his unreasonable (in her mind) demand that Gytha perform a particular mission for him. An incredibly dangerous, no doubt impossible one.

            “To eliminate the Dark Brotherhood,” Commander Maro repeated, strong jaw set stubbornly. “We’re talking about an agent who made one of Elenwen’s most effective Thalmor Justicars disappear, snuck through Jarl Balgruuf’s household – the most difficult to infiltrate because Irileth is probably one of the best counter-covert specialists in Tamriel – and defeated Potema the Wolf Queen. Astrid and her murderous band of thugs will be small potatoes compared to that.”

            Elisif gripped the front of her robes, trying to hide her nervousness. “I can’t order her to do that,” the Jarl told the Penitus Oculatus agent bluntly.

            “I know.” Maro took a deep breath and released it explosively. “I’m willing to make it worth her and _your_ while, Jarl Elisif. Three thousand septims for her and both your names given to the Emperor.”

            “I doubt Gytha would appreciate the last,” Elisif muttered, now understanding what the woman was – a covert agent of supreme skill, a hero who fought in the shadows like the Blades of old.

            “You’re planning to make her Thane,” Maro pointed out dryly.

            “Because so far as Solitude is concerned, she’s an adventurer and occasional trouble-shooter,” Elisif reminded him. “Many Jarls use such people to solve, ah, problems that cannot be approached openly.”

            “I only ask that you put the request to her,” Maro said quietly. “A lot of septims have been moved recently between particular individuals and a high Imperial official known for being… unreliable… entered Skyrim through Dawnstar. Half the Imperial succession lies in Haafingar, Jarl Elisif, and hiring the Dark Brotherhood to eliminate the lot of us would allow a particular individual who has no business being there to ascend to the Ruby Throne.”

            Maro was speaking to her as he would any member of the Elder Council, frankly about the dangers and why particular actions had to be taken. Elisif sighed, looking towards the guest room where a sorely injured Gytha was recuperating under Sybille’s expert eye.

            “I will ask her,” the Jarl of Solitude conceded. “But my court wizard says it will be a week or two, even with magical healing, before she’s ready to take on any more duties.”

            “That works for me. It will allow me time to put things into place for the Brotherhood’s elimination.” Maro paused, expression considering, before adding, “I have other agents I can call on to perform this mission. But I would rather the rewards for success go to the rightful High Queen of Skyrim before anyone else.”

            With those words he saluted and left, Captain Aldis remaining behind with mouth pursed in concern and Bolgeir looking nearly as worried.

            “Or he hopes that your best agent and Solitude’s staunchest defender softens the Dark Brotherhood up enough for _him_ to finish them off and gain the credit,” Aldis noted dourly.

            “Bolgeir is my staunchest defender and _you_ are the first line of defence,” Elisif told him gently. “Gytha has mobility and skills that both of you lack but you have strengths that she doesn’t have.”

            Aldis nodded, still looking worried. Bolgeir, a kinsman from the Nord side of her family, preened a little at the praise. Elisif had learned long ago that men liked being honoured and flattered, though in this case the praise was true.

            “I’m glad you’re making her a Thane,” the captain of the guard finally said. “If anything happened to you, I think half of Solitude would vote for her as Jarl.”

            Nord loyalty was easy to win and difficult to lose if you know what you were doing. Elisif struggled in doing so, maybe, but Gytha’s lack of pretence certainly aided her in gaining the friendship of many prominent people in Solitude.

            The Jarl took a deep breath. “If something does happen to me, support her or Bryling, whoever has the most support amongst the people. Don’t you dare let Erikur sit on this throne.” The good queen always prepared for the worst to happen so that her people were cared for. “If anything happens to me, have the Jarls support Balgruuf for High King.”

            A look of satisfaction passed between the men. “It will be so,” Bolgeir promised softly.

            Elisif sighed in relief. There was always the risk of Stormcloak assassins and who wasn’t to say Ulfric had made a deal with the particular person Maro warned of, Skyrim’s independence in return for a dead Imperial succession?

            She nodded and made her farewells before making her way to Gytha’s guest room, where she found the agent sitting upright and alert despite having staggered in, Sybille having vanished to… whatever she did in Castle Dour’s dungeons at night. “Judging by that expression, you’re about to command of me the impossible again, my Jarl,” the Reach Nord noted with a weary sigh she didn’t bother to conceal. “What is it now? Singlehandedly win the civil war and present Jarl Ulfric’s head to you on a silver platter by next week?”

            Elisif sat on the end of the bed, smiling apologetically at the green-eyed woman. “This is… a request. But it is an important one.” The Jarl of Solitude outlined everything Maro had told her, reasoning which was no doubt old news to the covert agent, and watched the lines around her eyes deepen with worry.

            “Commander Maro shouldn’t dismiss the Brotherhood so lightly,” Gytha finally observed. “To be honest, Jarl Elisif, I got lucky with Potema and that Thalmor. I literally just walked in and up to Jarl Balgruuf while everyone was having dinner. I’m a vagrant who wore a borrowed outfit because an elf offered me a few coins for it a few hours after I was kicked out of Dragon Bridge because Faida fancies Commander Maro’s son.”

            The raw conviction in her voice made Elisif wonder if everything they’d assumed about Gytha was wrong, a collection of misunderstandings and mistakes that led everyone to think she was a skilled covert agent, but then she shook her head. Maybe she saw herself that way because she’d lost family to the Silver-Bloods. “I know your clan was eliminated in the Great War or just after,” the Jarl told her agent gently. “By either the Thalmor or the Silver-Bloods.”

            Those green eyes, luminous like sunlight through spring leaves, widened in the tell-tale sign of Elisif hitting the mark. “The Silver-Bloods,” she finally admitted. “Father owned Kolskeggr Mine, the richest source of gold in the Reach, and his brother Ainethach owned Sanuarach Mine, the richest source of silver outside of Cidhna. Now the Silver-Bloods rent Kolskeggr to some Imperial and his Orc friend while Uncle Ainethach, the last I heard, only hung onto his mine because Jarl Igmund’s father vouched for him.”

            “High King Istlod said that much of Ulfric’s ‘purge’ was really the elimination of Silver-Blood rivals,” Elisif agreed sadly.

            Gytha shrugged; the wound was so old and so deep that the pain of it didn’t even register anymore, Elisif suspected. “It’s old bones under the river,” she said, referring to the Reach proverb about a wrong against someone being buried for so long that the years removed all trace of it. She obviously didn’t believe justice for her clan would be done, something that nearly made Elisif weep.

            “The Silver-Bloods openly support the Stormcloaks, because they know that if Ulfric wins, they won’t just own the Reach they will have the literal power of life and death over its people,” Elisif told her fellow Reach Nord flatly. “That Imperial official Commander Maro spoke of might just be funded by them – I can see Ulfric supporting a corrupt Emperor in return for Skyrim’s ‘freedom’.”

            Gytha’s eyes narrowed. “Ulfric’s too… how do I put this? Too straightforward. Yeah, he’s a murderous son of a bitch with a mean streak a mile wide, but he doesn’t have the Silver-Bloods’ particular brand of nastiness. Thonar Silver-Blood is more than capable of arranging matters like this without ever troubling the Jarl of Windhelm’s ears with something that might make the Butcher of Markarth feel the teeniest bit dishonourable.”

            “You know the Jarl of Windhelm?” Elisif asked cautiously.

            “I’ve travelled all over Skyrim, my Jarl. Windhelm’s a rundown shithole where half the populace is either trapped in a slum or locked outside the gates and the other half either worships Ulfric like he’s Talos returned or looks over their shoulder in fear of not being deemed ‘Nord’ enough.” Gytha shook her head in disgust. “Dawnstar is a shabby collection of cottages, two mines and a Jarl that’s stripped it bare because he considers Ulfric the heir to Tiber Septim. Winterhold is an inn, the Jarl’s hall, a shop and a cottage with a ruler who keeps on trying to run the only reason his Hold exists out of town. Riften’s as corrupt as they say: Jarl Laila’s useless and Maven should just marry into the Silver-Bloods because they’re both nasty, corrupt pieces of work, except the Black-Briars stand by the Empire.”

            Elisif stared at the woman who called herself a vagrant, astonished by the succinct summary of the damage Ulfric had done to the east side of Skyrim. Perhaps she wasn’t Steward material, especially if her family had been killed while she was likely only a child and so she wasn’t properly educated, but she had an understanding of human nature that her other Thanes sorely lacked.

            “Commander Maro needs time to put things in place to set up the mission for you, if you want to take it,” she finally said. “If you do so, you have my full permission to engage in any actions you see fit.”

            “Destroying the Brotherhood will remove one of Maven’s weapons,” Gytha pointed out. “If you annoy her, she sends the Thieves’ Guild to ruin you. If you piss her off, she sends the Brotherhood.”

            “I refuse to live in fear of a petty provincial mead-maker,” Elisif said decisively.

            “I’m not sure if you’re naïve, crazy or brave,” Gytha noted dryly. “Still, eliminating the Dark Brotherhood would definitely help your plans.”

            She fell silent, obviously thinking, running that brilliant agent’s mind through the variables. Elisif assumed that she lived as a vagrant to protect herself from the Silver-Bloods; she still had rights to Kolskeggr and the corrupt mercantile family would want to eliminate all heirs to make sure they could keep their greedy little mitts on the mine. A harsh life, one that had forged her into the perfect spy.

            “How much coin can you spare?” Gytha finally said. “I will need a lot of muscle to do this and the only way I can find people willing to take on the Dark Brotherhood will be to approach the Companions of Jorrvaskr.”

            “Commander Maro promised three thousand septims,” Elisif told her.

            “That might be enough. If I recall correctly, they demand half the coin upfront, so I’ll sell all that enchanted stuff you gave me to raise the deposit.” Gytha settled back into the pillows, looking exhausted. “Hell, I might get a discount because they do weird shit for glory, that lot.”

            “Thank you,” Elisif said sincerely, pulling the blanket up a bit over the woman. She was truly beginning to like Gytha as a person because she didn’t see an Imperial puppet, she saw Jarl Elisif the Fair, the rightful High Queen of Skyrim. If not for her fellow Reach Nord, she’d still be sunk in mourning for Torygg, willing to do whatever General Tullius told her.

            “Don’t thank me until it’s done,” Gytha mumbled before falling asleep.

            Elisif patted her shoulder gently and rose to her feet. She might have a few pieces of jewellery she could sell to help Gytha fund the hiring of the Companions.


	5. For Glory, Honour and Other Ephemeral Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for fantastic racism, violence and death, including that of a minor.

The giant was big and tearing up Pelagia Farm in the giantish equivalent of a temper tantrum. Three smaller figures, one of them wearing the iconic wolf armour of the Companions, were teaching it that breaking humans’ things was a bad idea. Gytha, wanting to get their attention, unlimbered the bow it was getting easier to use and fired a couple arrows at it to look like she knew what she was doing. With a target that big, even she couldn’t miss.

            Finally, the female Companion in old-style Nord armour hamstrung the giant and the male Companion ran it through with a sword that was probably bigger and heavier than Gytha. He handled it like a butter-knife. Companions were like that.

            The woman who hamstrung the giant, an athletic redhead with three stripes of forest-green paint on her face, turned away from the dying creature and spotted Gytha with the elven bow in her hands. She trotted over with an approving expression after seeing the two iron arrows in the giant’s corpse.

            “You handle yourself well. You could make for a decent Shield-Sister.”

            “Lucky shot,” Gytha explained, not wanting to lie to the Companions when she was going to handle them. Legend said that the Circle could sniff out falsehoods anyway. “Even I couldn’t miss a target that big.”

            “Your humility does you credit,” the Companion said amusedly, “But don’t think less of yourself. Only the courageous would test themselves against a giant.”

            It was then that Gytha decided Companions were crazy. It was bad enough Elisif and everyone else mistook her for some noble-born spy who handled enemies of Solitude with ease but now the redhead was eyeing her like she was some potential hero in the making. And the other two, an Imperial girl in shiny new scale armour and the big, dark-haired man in wolf armour, were now approaching.

            “I needed to talk to you and it was in the way,” Gytha said with a shrug. “I want to hire the Companions for a fairly big job.”

            “You mean ‘hire a Companion or two’, right?” the redhead asked.

            “No, I mean the whole lot of you. The job’s pretty big and the security of Skyrim depends on it.” Gytha folded her arms as the warpaint-wearing woman regarded her sceptically.

            “She’s telling the truth, Aela,” the male Companion growled. “And seems there’s a rumour out of Solitude about a hero in a black wolfskin cloak who banished the Wolf Queen.”

            Gytha was definitely going to need to get a new cloak if her current one led to misunderstandings like this. “I got lucky,” she admitted, watching Aela and the Imperial eye her well-worn leather armour and ebony war axe thoughtfully. “It involved a lot of running around and hitting things with a sword while trying not to die.”

            “The essence of every battle,” Aela noted sagely. “Perhaps you _are_ serious. Come up to Jorrvaskr so all the Companions can discuss this.”

            Gytha obeyed, following the trio – Aela, Farkas and Ria – up through the winding streets of Whiterun while keeping her head up. A few whispers followed her and she sincerely hoped that the Battle-Borns didn’t recognise her. They might hold grudges.

            Jorrvaskr was a big overturned boat turned into a meadhall. Its doors were carved with the Four-Direction Flower and up on the hill, someone was pounding steel. Eorlund Grey-Mane if she recalled correctly.

            Inside, it was classic meadhall – table and fire-pit in the centre, two people pounding the shit out of each other in the corner. Oddly, one was a Dunmer and both were being encouraged. Of course, it ended with the dark elf on the ground and the Nord woman in heavy armour looking triumphant. Never get into a fistfight with a Nord warrior was one of Gytha’s life rules – and _she_ was a Nord.

            “New recruit?” asked a tall, older warrior with one eye and a balding grey ponytail. “Looks a little scrawny.”

            “Nah, says she wants to hire all of us,” Farkas answered. “And don’t laugh, she put two arrows into a giant at seventy paces and is the one who banished the Wolf Queen in Solitude.”

            The older Companion grunted noncommittally. “Go and tell Jarl Elisif we don’t do politics.”

            Gytha prayed to Dibella for every bit of eloquence she could muster as she calmly replied, “Killing the Dark Brotherhood is politics, now?”

            Everyone within earshot went silent and stared at her, several jaws dropping, until Aela hesitantly asked, “You’re serious? The Dark Brotherhood?”

            Gytha nodded quickly. “The Penitus Oculatus got the passphrase to the Falkreath Sanctuary and with the civil war getting hotter every day, _someone_ is going to turn to the Brotherhood to win through murder what they mightn’t be able to gain through honour and glory. Thonar Silver-Blood on the Stormcloak side and Maven Black-Briar on the Imperial team being the two most likely culprits.”

            The one-eyed Companion pursed his lips. “It’s still a little too political for my liking.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry to have bothered you then. I thought the heirs of Ysgramor would want to wipe out the last vestiges of the Brotherhood for honour, glory and three thousand septims plus loot,” Gytha observed with a sigh. “It was _my_ idea to hire you when Falk Firebeard wanted to either leave it to the Penitus Oculatus or hire a few sellswords and a battlemage of dubious loyalty for half the price.”

            Falk _had_ raised that idea when Elisif sold a few pieces of jewellery to help finance the hiring of the Companions, but was quickly shut down by Bryling and Bolgeir.

            The Reach Nord shrugged as she turned for the door. “I understand you not wanting the job as some of the reasoning _is_ political, at least on my end. I better go to the Bannered Mare and see if Uthgerd the Unbroken would like to reclaim some of her lost honour-“

            _“Wait.”_ The one-eyed Companion’s voice was commanding and Gytha turned around to look at him. “Skyrim _would_ be a safer place without the Brotherhood and if they die, the civil war will need to be ended honourably. This sort of decision must be reached by the entirety of the heirs of Jorrvaskr. Come back to us by sunset and we will have an answer for you.”

            Gytha nodded, offering a warrior’s salute, and headed for the doors. She would surely be able to dodge the Battle-Borns for a few hours.

…

“Such a deed would surely bring us glory but there are political aspects to it,” Skjor finished explaining as the Circle, surrounded by the whelps, discussed the job that the woman already called the Black Wolf of Solitude by the bards brought to them. Farkas and Aela, who’d seen her in action, were for it while he and Vilkas were more concerned about its effects on the honour of the Companions. So far Kodlak hadn’t revealed his opinion, allowing the others to voice theirs first.

            “True enough,” Kodlak agreed as he shifted on his seat, grunting in pain. His hope for a cure to the beast-blood led him to risk the straw-death instead of embracing the sword-death. Skjor would accept his decision – even aid him in it – if he wasn’t trying to make the choice for the entire Circle and generations to come. “But is this so-called Black Wolf honourable?”

            “Perhaps not as _we_ would define it,” Athis pointed out. “The woman has the manner of an agent. But she’s taken on greater enemies alone or only accompanied by another. If it’s honourable for Aela the Huntress to snipe an unawares target from a distance, then her decision to perform the hard duties for those who cannot is honourable – at least in Morrowind.”

            The Dunmer leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. “My parents, as you know, were Morag Tong. The Brotherhood killed them when I was younger. Honour, both Nord and Dunmer, demands I aid in the destruction of the Brotherhood – so I say aye.”

            Skjor nodded in acceptance of Athis’ vote. The dark elf had a good point, as the Morag Tong were in some ways much like the Companions – they dispensed justice for those who couldn’t gain it otherwise, even if their methods were… questionable.

            Njada, who had some Stormcloak leanings, shook her head. “Her argument is specious. Jarl Ulfric would never hire an assassin to win him the throne of Skyrim.”

            “True enough,” Ria retorted. “But I wager he’d take advantage if an assassin killed Jarl Balgruuf, for instance. And can I remind you that he used the Thu’um on someone who couldn’t match him Voice for Voice?”

            “Ulfric followed the letter of the law when it came to trial by combat for the throne but violated its spirit. We all agreed on that,” Kodlak reminded the pair of them. “And the Black Wolf specifically pointed out the two prominent people in Skyrim, both of who would become Jarls if their sides won the civil war, who _would_ hire the Brotherhood.”

            Njada backed down but Ria didn’t. “Say if Ulfric wins. How long before he decides that only Nords can be Companions? We’re the epitome of Skyrim’s warriors, arbiters of its honour, after all – and everyone knows that faithless Imperials and filthy greyskins can’t understand what true honour is.”

            “The Empire signed away Talos’ divinity to protect itself,” Vilkas pointed out. “And the Thalmor are allowed to cart away whosoever they deem worshippers of the Stormcrown.”

            “Why do you think I’m in Skyrim?” she retorted. “But until Ulfric started raising hell, everyone worshipped quietly, paying lip service to the White-Gold Concordat. That’s what the Emperor probably intended, buy us enough time to prepare for round two with the Dominion.”

            “Politics are not our concern,” Kodlak said sharply, silencing the Imperial. “Ria, you have brought up a valid point concerning the Stormcloaks’ racism and we will plan for it if the worst comes to pass. But the discussion is about destroying the Dark Brotherhood for the Black Wolf of Solitude.”

            “We should, if only to remove a canker from Skyrim,” Aela said calmly. “It would be a grand hunt, worthy of our skills.”

            “Agreed.” Kodlak rose to his feet stiffly. “Honour demands that we destroy the Dark Brotherhood for glory and Skyrim but that we accept no payment beyond what we claim with our swords.”

            It was, as always, an excellent compromise. Skjor might miss that coin and what it would do for the Companions’ coffers, especially with winter approaching, but the honour of their political neutrality demanded they accept no Imperial coin for it.

            The Black Wolf arrived just after sunset, looking over her shoulder. “Gods save me from the bloody Battle-Borns,” she muttered.

            “You have trouble with them?” Skjor asked pointedly.

            “Misunderstandings, the story of my life.” The woman sighed and folded her arms. “I worked for them as a servant but a piece of jewellery got misplaced and so I was called a thief and thrown out on my ear. Makes Whiterun a nervous place for me because Olfrid has dealings with the Thieves’ Guild.”

            “And you know this how?” Skjor recalled something about that, a gift Jon Battle-Born had gotten for Olfina Grey-Mane when the clans were still friends.

            “Shadowmarks. The Thieves’ Guild has a particular set of signs they carve into various things. Olfrid has the one that says ‘Don’t rob’ on his lintel.” The Wolf’s green eyes gleamed with rueful amusement. “Yours has ‘rich pickings’ on it.”

            “I doubt any Thief would be so foolish as to try and steal from us,” Skjor asserted. “And how do you know the shadowmarks? Were you a Thief?”

            “I grew up in Honorhall,” the Wolf admitted dourly. “You learn a lot of things in Riften.”

            Skjor supposed that was true. No wonder she was a good spy. “Well, I have good news. The Companions will aid you in destroying the Dark Brotherhood but honour demands we accept no payment but what we earn through our swords.”

            “And here Jarl Elisif sold some of her dower jewels for nothing,” the Wolf observed ruefully.

            Hearing that the legendarily vain, beautiful Jarl of Solitude had sold adornments to hire the Companions brought the woman up a little in Skjor’s opinion of her. “Perhaps she can buy some food for the poor or something,” he suggested.

            “Pfft, General Tullius will probably just confiscate the coin unless we find something else to do with it,” the Wolf muttered.

            Skjor refrained from commenting on that. “When do we head out?”

            “Tomorrow. I’ll be going with you.” The Wolf flashed a rueful smile. “It’s not that I don’t trust you or I’m a mighty warrior, it’s that I was given this duty and must see it through.”

            Skjor inclined his head in recognition of the honour in her decision. “We will leave at dawn. Would you like the hospitality of Jorrvaskr?”

            She nodded. “I better accept it just in case Olfrid Battle-Born misplaces something else and I get blamed for it.”

            The Wolf, who gave the name Gytha, was abstemious in her drinking of mead and allowed others to talk before excusing herself to take the spare bed she would be given. Skjor thought it a great pity that she became a spy before the Companions found her, because she was a woman of great honour though she repeatedly claimed she was just lucky. A great pity indeed.

…

_“What is the music of life?”_

“Silence, my brother,” Gytha whispered.

            _“Welcome home.”_

The Black Door opened and she fell into a crouch, Aela and Athis on her heels as the others’ honour precluded them doing the sensible thing and sneaking into the Sanctuary. Not that assaulting the home of the Dark Brotherhood was sensible to begin with.

            A tall, golden-haired woman in black and maroon leather stood over a map, tracing out a path on it with an iron dagger as she spoke to a big, hairy Nord with bare feet. “We’ll take this route-“

            Her words were cut off as Aela’s arrow lodged in the back of her neck, killing her instantly. Then all Oblivion broke loose as the Nord male became a werewolf.

            Gytha drank an Invisibility potion and bolted past the monster, certain she did _not_ see Aela become a werewolf herself to engage the Dark Brother. She ran smack bang into a jester, of all the fucking things, and became visible as he howled about defilers, intruders and other mildly hypocritical things. They screamed at the same time, only Gytha’s was actually the Battle-Cry, and he quailed before Kynareth’s gift to all Nords.

            Then Farkas loomed up behind the crate – how the hell did someone so big move so quiet? – and shoved it, squashing the jester flat as the wood broke to reveal an old sarcophagus of stone and lead.

            Gytha might have puked up on seeing a dried corpse in there – probably the Night Mother of legend – but an Argonian took exception to the Companions trying to kill the Brotherhood and went for her. He was fast and skilled with the dagger he held, and she’d used her Battle-Cry for the day.

            Working on the assumption that the knife was poisoned, Gytha threw a gout of flame at the lizard’s hand, causing him to drop the dagger. But then it turned out he knew how to wrestle and she didn’t, so she was soon in a chokehold being rapidly strangled to death as the Companions fought the other assassins without realising their employer was in the processes of dying.

            She grabbed the Argonian’s strong wiry forearm and used the last of her magicka to shove heat through her palms, making him scream in pain and release her. Gulping for air, Gytha picked up a piece of broken crate and raised it over her head, bringing it down like a woodcutter’s axe. It took a few swings to turn the assassin’s head into mush.

            The now-familiar graveyard smell of a vampire – just as some of her magicka was creeping back – warned her of the tiny creature’s attack just before claws raked across her armour. The vampire turned to draining Gytha’s blood through a spell, smiling toothily with glowing orange eyes.

            _Gods above but I am sick of the undead,_ Gytha thought as she felt her strength ebbing even as her magicka slowly returned to the amount she needed to cast Turn Lesser Undead.

            It happened when she fell to her knees; the girl-vampire wasn’t expecting a holy spell to the face, one that made her turn into a small torch of white-golden light before becoming ashes.

            Drained of both strength and magicka, Gytha fell to her hands, trying to breathe through a bruised throat. From the looks of it, the Companions had everything in hand, Athis running an old wizard who threw a lightning spell at him through.

            The slaughter – that’s what it was, the assassins unable to use their usual strengths of speed and stealth against werewolves who could sniff them out and beat them in a straight battle – ended with Aela, bleeding from several gashes, throwing the head of the Brotherhood werewolf into the room and howling in triumph. Most of the Companions bore injuries of various stripes but none had died.

            Farkas opened the coffin of the Night Mother, grimacing in disgust. “Gytha, you wanna burn this?” he asked. “End the Brotherhood forever?”

            “Of course,” she managed to rasp. “Get everything that might be flammable and fill the coffin with it.”

            _“Impressive,”_ rasped a woman’s voice. _“You purged a heretical cell, though I mourn poor sweet loyal Cicero. Tell the Companions that you will burn my corpse alone and they will leave. Then we discuss the future of the Dark Brotherhood-“_

“Can you please hurry the fuck up with the firewood?” Gytha snapped. “The Night Mother is trying to speak to me and I’d rather not be an assassin, thanks.”

            _“You could have revenge on the Silver-Bloods. You could help Jarl Elisif to become the true High Queen of Skyrim with a few simple murders. You could even slay Olfrid Battle-Born. Simply Listen to my offer.”_

Gytha cursed and flung Flames at the sarcophagus, igniting the corpse. Athis, his face twisted with fury, added his Ancestor’s Wrath to the mix.

            The Night Mother’s screaming took a long while to die down until nothing but ashes remained of her.

            “Fucking hell, I _hate_ the undead,” Gytha said fervently just before she collapsed for the second time in two weeks.

…

“By the gods, you actually did it.”

            Jarl Elisif, who managed to keep her composure as Gytha and the Companions presented the heads of every Dark Brother they killed, including a child vampire that Sybille identified as the Demon-Child of Wayrest, looked down on her agent with pride. The woman who Elisif had the bards call the Black Wolf of Solitude looked up at her with purple-black bruises around her throat, one arm in a sling and a haunted expression on her face that was out of keeping with the glory she had earned today.

            “We did,” she rasped. “The Companions, for honour’s sake, declined the fee offered for the task because they felt the reasoning was pushing their political neutrality. The Harbinger Kodlak Whitemane suggested that the coin go into founding a hospice where the sick and needy may be healed without charge or prejudice.”

            “Then out of respect for the heirs of Ysgramor, it will be done,” Elisif announced. “Let it be announced that a site will be chosen for the hospice forthwith.”

            She smiled down at Gytha. “In honour of your service to my court and recognition of your status as a champion of Solitude, I grant you the title of Thane and the deed to Proudspire Manor. What say you, Black Wolf of Solitude?”

            “Deed the manor as the site of the hospice,” Gytha answered promptly. “I’ve lived without a home all these years, so I’m not sure what I’d do with a fancy manor to begin with.”

            For a moment Elisif was horribly insulted at the rejection of the richest gift she could grant Gytha, the woman who’d saved Solitude and advanced her plans to become High Queen, but then she reminded herself that the Reach Nord was a woman of great compassion who knew what it was to have nothing. By deeding the manor, Elisif would be able to found the hospice that Solitude dearly needed _and_ stock it with coin from selling her own jewellery, all without raising taxes or impacting General Tullius’ ability to fight the Stormcloaks.

            “Then it shall be so. I will invite the temples and College to invite their best healers when Proudspire Hospice is ready, and have them teach others the art of healing as needed,” Elisif announced. “In recognition of your new title, I grant you the Blade of Haafingar and a personal huscarl.”

            “Thanks,” Gytha rasped. “Just, for the love of the gods, let me have a couple centuries’ break before I have to kill more undead?”

            “I will do my best,” Elisif promised as Bryling led the court in a cheer for Solitude’s newest Thane and the Companions. With such a powerful ally, perhaps now General Tullius and the other Jarls would treat her with the respect she deserved.

…

Mist rolled in from the Sea of Ghosts, shrouding the moons in pearl-grey swathes. Erikur tugged his cloak tighter around himself, biting back a curse. He didn’t want to be here but recent events had forced him to action.

            Gytha, the so-called Black Wolf of Solitude, was a fraud. He didn’t understand how anyone couldn’t see past the heroic façade to the crass beggar beneath. Falk and Elisif were convinced she was from a Reach noble clan, lost in Ulfric’s purge, while Commander Maro believed she was a spy equal to the long-dead Blades. She was a vagrant who got lucky and somehow managed to climb to the top of Solitude's power structure, ruining many of Erikur’s plans.

            A shape emerged from the mists, wrapped head to toe in clinging black. Only blue-grey eyes were visible.

            “Of all the people in Skyrim, you were one of the last I expected to hear from, being a Thalmor toady,” the man said snidely. “What do you want, milkdrinker?”

            “We have a mutual enemy,” Erikur responded, ignoring the insult. “Does the name Gytha Bark-Shod mean anything to you?”

            Judging by the flicker of eyes, it did, but his contact would never admit to that. “Why should the name of some wandering vagrant bother me?”

            “Because Gytha Bark-Shod, a woman so poor she wove her winter shoes from birch bark, is now the Black Wolf of Solitude.” Erikur paused to let that information sink in. “She is Thane of Solitude, beloved by the people, and Elisif relies on her for advice. Through luck and guile, she’s managed to worm her way into the court and the Penitus Oculatus’ good graces. That _beggar_ is within a heartbeat of being deeded Kolskeggr Mine again – and if she and Ainethach team up…”

            The Silver-Blood’s eyes tightened. “So hire the Dark Brotherhood to kill her.”

            “Here’s the thing – she just eliminated them.” Erikur kept back the triumphant smile as panic entered the Silver-Blood’s eyes. “I’m here as a courtesy call, Silver-Blood, because we both have a mutual enemy. I can’t eliminate her in Solitude but I can get her sent to Markarth. I’m sure your pet Forsworn can do the rest.”

            “I will have her killed or imprisoned because it suits me, not because I want to help you,” the Silver-Blood responded tersely. “But I will expect the debt repaid when the Stormcloaks are in position to take Solitude.”

            Erikur was certain that day would never come, so he smiled and nodded. The Silver-Bloods weren’t the only people who could have someone framed and the Thieves, who had friends in the Brotherhood, were a damned sight better than it.

            He would be the rightful High King of Skyrim, with or without Elisif as his bride.


	6. Take to the Seas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence and fantastic racism. If you’re wondering if/why Gytha took a bit of a level in badass during this chapter, it’s because it’s the second last chapter in this story.

_So that’s the Black Wolf of Solitude._

General Marcus Tullius studied the lean, scar-faced woman in the black fur cloak who stood to the side in Elisif’s court as he waited for the Jarl, a pretty slip of a girl who was never meant to rule, to acknowledge him. Being forced to distract his attention from planning a major offensive against Ulfric Stormcloak because Elisif was feeling slighted annoyed him enough; cooling his heels while she dispensed with petty court business made him grind his teeth hard enough to crack dried corn between them. Commander Maro of the Penitus Oculatus regarded the Legion officer with cool amusement, wearing pretty burnished armour that had never been dented in battle, while Falk looked somewhat apologetic. Thane Erikur, whose ambition made him almost trustworthy, looked too smug for Tullius’ liking and Bryling – a woman with too much sympathy for the Stormcloaks – was concerned.

            Gytha Bark-Shod, as Legion officers from Whiterun named her, watched the court with cool green eyes that wouldn’t look out of place in his native West Wealde. She let others talk, only speaking when Elisif asked her opinion, and was doing her best to boost the Jarl’s self-esteem – not a bad thing, but the last thing Tullius needed at the moment was the would-be High Queen becoming stubborn before the war was won. At the moment, he needed all the resources he could get from Haafingar, because the Empire weren’t giving him the men and materiel he needed, and that meant keeping Elisif pliable.

            Finally Elisif dispensed with the last petitioner and looked at General Tullius, feigning surprise. “Why General, it’s a pleasure to see you’re finally free to see me after my repeated requests,” she said pointedly.

            “I have a war to win. I don’t have time to play courtier,” Tullius retorted flatly. “Is there a point to this?”

            “’Your Grace’,” Falk Firebeard said sharply.

            “I have a daughter older than Elisif,” Tullius informed the Steward. “And it is my duty to bring Ulfric to heel, something you Nords couldn’t manage on your own.”

            “Bringing the Stormcloaks to heel shouldn’t involve stripping all but the necessities – and even many of them – from Haafingar,” Bryling countered icily. “Treating Skyrim as your own personal larder drives the commoners to support Ulfric more and more each day.”

            Tullius ran his eyes up and down the woman’s well-fed, muscular form pointedly. “You seem to be doing well enough.”

            “My family followed the old Nord tradition of storing a year’s worth of food should a poor harvest come,” Bryling retorted smoothly. “Unfortunately, General, you’ve made that difficult by having Legionnaires take the harvest before the farmers could do that.”

            “Ulfric would take a lot more,” Tullius pointed out. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re in a warzone.”

            “Those on the ground have noticed,” Elisif noted with a sideways glance at Gytha. “I know Haafingar must pay its fair share, General Tullius, but I am seeing precious little return or even respect.”

            “Wars aren’t won in a day,” he reminded the girl. “I’m still gathering intelligence on Ulfric’s movements.”

            “Your spies must be incompetent then,” Elisif countered coolly. “I’ve received more intelligence from my own network than the Legion.”

            Gytha cleared her throat. “General Tullius, right? I’ve been to Windhelm. Ulfric’s a piece of work who oppresses half of the population and of the Dunmer and Argonians who live there, many are Imperial or descended from Imperial loyalists. Why don’t you send a couple of your smarter Quaestors there to pick up information – dark elves often work as servants in the richer clans’ houses and the Argonians know every shipping schedule and smuggler from Dawnstar to Solstheim.”

            Tullius believed in acknowledging good ideas, so he nodded to the Black Wolf. That Reach accent, combining the West Wealde lilt with a hint of Nord burr, concealed a sharp mind. No wonder she’d risen to the top of the heap in Solitude. “I’ll put that into motion,” he agreed. “How long ago was it you were in Windhelm?”

            “Roughly a year, but short of a major plague, the prominent citizens won’t have changed,” she answered promptly. “Ulfric’s not exactly imaginative.”

            The General nodded, eyeing the agent thoughtfully. If he could borrow her-

            “General Tullius, do we have any information from Markarth concerning the rash of mysterious murders there?” Erikur asked, interrupting the Colovian’s train of thought. “You know, the ones of Imperial supporters and Reachfolk?”

            “That’s a little off-track, isn’t it?” Tullius asked with narrowed eyes.

            “Not at all. The Silver-Bloods often acquire the properties of said victims, many of whom mysteriously die intestate,” Erikur answered, eyes flicking pointedly to Gytha, who regarded him stonily.

            “Everyone knows the Silver-Bloods are as corrupt as a Colovian dock official,” Bryling observed dryly. “I don’t know why Jarl Igmund just doesn’t hang the lot of them.”

            “Because they own Cidhna Mine, they own everything but Understone Keep, and they own the Markarth city guard,” Gytha replied sourly. “And because of this, the Forsworn kill everyone they can, even Reachfolk.”

            Erikur did his best to put on an innocently concerned face, one that didn’t fool Tullius. “If we can _prove_ the Silver-Bloods’ corruption, we could confiscate their assets. Imagine the silver of Sanuarach and Cidhna Mines, the gold of Kolskeggr, the iron of Left Hand Mine all pouring into the war effort…”

            “Unless the Silver-Bloods managed to drive off Ainethach, Sanuarach still belongs to him,” Gytha said icily.

            Elisif glanced at her. “Didn’t you say he was your uncle?”

            “Aye. He, Eltrys the Elder and my father owned the three mines nearest to Markarth,” Gytha admitted grimly. “Three Reachmen, one of which was killed by Forsworn and my father killed in Ulfric’s… purge.” She practically spat the last word out.

            “Well then.” Erikur’s voice was tinged with triumph. “Perhaps the Black Wolf of Solitude should deal with these corrupt Stormcloak supporters. I’m sure after Potema and the Dark Brotherhood, the Silver-Bloods will be simple enough to deal with.”

            “I got lucky with Potema and still lost a friend, and I had the Companions with me when the Brotherhood were wiped out,” Gytha responded softly. “The Silver-Bloods own everything and nearly everyone in the Reach but for the Forsworn, and _they’ll_ kill me for being a Nord.”

            “I have an agent in Markarth already,” Tullius informed Erikur. “When she delivers the proof, I can send in the Penitus Oculatus so they can do something other than stand around and look pretty.”

            Maro’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. The man was too canny a courtier to retaliate publicly, but Tullius needed to vent his annoyance on _something_ and the security force would do. And when he presented Ulfric’s head to the Emperor, there wasn’t a bit of harm Maro could do to him.

            “What, you don’t want to avenge your father and reclaim Kolskeggr?” Erikur asked in mock astonishment to an increasingly unhappy Gytha. “Surely the Black Wolf of Solitude isn’t scared of a few low-cost thugs…”

            “No, I’m scared about the corrupt fucking city guards, the random Forsworn attacks and the piss-flavoured mead they sell in the Silver-Blood Inn,” Gytha retorted flatly. “I do myself and Jarl Elisif no good mining silver in Cidhna thanks to trumped up charges, Thane Erikur.”

            “The mighty Black Wolf admitting fear?” Erikur asked scornfully.

            “When you’ve faced as many enemies I have, Thane Erikur, you can mock me about being scared,” Gytha pointed out. “When you’ve lived as a vagrant from one end of Skyrim to the other and back again, you can be as insulting as you please. But until I see you pick up a sword and use it to cut up something that isn’t a haunch of rare venison, I’ll consider every word from your mouth an ill wind from your arse.”

            Bryling slowly clapped as Erikur glowered at the agent. Tullius had to admit it was refreshing to see a Nord who wasn’t all boneheaded courage and the reincarnation of Ysgramor.

            Gytha folded her arms, regarding Erikur flatly. “You seem very keen to see me out of the city. I wonder why?”

            “I have nothing to hide!” Erikur retorted.

            “Then I’m sure you won’t mind Falk going over your shipping books; it’s passing strange that the only ships getting through those pirates that aren’t owned by Shatter-Shields are yours,” Gytha pointed out blandly.

            Erikur shrugged nonchalantly. “I have my captains pay the pirates bribes. It’s cheaper than hiring mercenaries.”

            Maro cleared his throat. “Actually, those pirates _are_ trouble,” he told Gytha. “I know you’re not fond of Windhelm, but we need to find out what’s going on there. The East Empire Trade Company’s office has all but shut down and while the Shatter-Shields aren’t as corrupt as the Silver-Bloods, they effectively control Ulfric’s maritime forces.”

            “Oh yes, I’ll magically wave my hand and the pirates will turn into horkers,” Gytha informed the Commander acidly, earning a wry chuckle from him.

            “I just need you to find out who’s behind those pirates,” he assured her. “The Company will be footing the bill to clean them out.”

            “Wonders never bloody cease,” Gytha observed with a sigh. “Alright, I’ll go. It’s better that than bloody Markarth.”

            Tullius was inclined to agree with her on that. “If you should find any useful intelligence…” he told the agent.

            “I know, give it to Elisif, Maro and you,” she finished.

            He wanted to tell her him first but now wasn’t the time for a pissing match in the Jarl’s court. “It is,” he confirmed.

            He mightn’t yet control this resource but damned if he was going to let her go to waste.

…

“’It’s better than bloody Markarth’, she said,” Gytha muttered as she prepared to do a spot of thievery. She’d met Orthus Endario and discovered that yes, the Shatter-Shields were behind it, but they needed proof, names and the location of the pirates before the Company would pay for the mercenaries.

            It was late afternoon in Windhelm, which was to say it was going from freezing to freezing one’s arse off with a fart. Some judicious favours – acquire some skooma and talk that fat bastard Tornbjorn Shatter-Shield into paying the Argonians proper wages – meant that Stands-in-Shallows and Scouts-Many-Marshes were having a loud argument with Suvaris Atheron so she could quite frankly steal the business records. Apparently Suvaris kept meticulous records.

            The door was unlocked, thank the gods as she was a shit lockpicker, and so she was able to slip inside while everyone was distracted. Walking through the warehouse piled high with barrels of horker meat, rare skins, gleaming pieces of amber and carts of ore, she quickly located the logbook that was needed. Somewhat awkwardly, Suvaris walked in, glowering more than usual for a Dunmer in Windhelm, and caught her before she could escape.

            _Time to bullshit, time to bullshit-_ “Well, _finally_ ,” Gytha snapped, glad she’d had the brains to shove the logbook into her pack before Suvaris showed up.

            The Dunmer sighed resignedly, taking in her well-worn but good leather armour and the ebony war axe on her hip, and Gytha felt bad about channelling every racist lowlander Nord she’d ever met. But if she got caught and her identity as the so-called Black Wolf got out, things would be… painful. And by painful, she meant ‘blood-eagled as a spy in the courtyard before the Palace of Kings by a grinning Jarl Ulfric’. “Yes?”

            “I’m here about the pay Stig Salt-Plank owes me,” Gytha said icily. “He short-changed me and when I bitched about it, he told me to see you.”

            _Thank the gods for a quick glance at the book,_ she thought as Suvaris’ face tightened. “I’m not responsible for pay disputes involving the Blood Horkers,” she retorted curtly. “Now leave before I have you thrown out.”

            “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” Gytha grumbled as she stormed out.

            “And tell Stig when you get back to Dawnstar to stop trying to cheat me!” Suvaris snapped before slamming the door.

            “I will,” Gytha promised before moving quickly – _not running_ but moving very quickly – to the ferry which operated along the Sea of Ghosts. She needed to be in the harbour before Suvaris realised the logbook was gone.

            A few coins and narrowed eyes got the boatman rowing out just as Suvaris came bursting out of her office screaming “Thief!”

            “It wasn’t me this time, you old greyskin!” snapped Stands-in-Shallows.

            “Of course it wasn’t, you skooma-addled idiot-“ The boatman, obviously realising something was going on, decided to row faster just in case he got dragged in as an accomplice.

            When they reached Dawnstar a few hours later, Gytha handed him half her purse. “I may need you to take me back,” she told him.

            “Better hope Suvaris doesn’t catch you,” the boatman said dryly as she disembarked.

            _I do,_ Gytha thought as she headed for the inn.

            Stig Salt-Plank and the charmingly named Blood Horkers were harassing the innkeeper’s daughter until Gytha walked up to them and sat down. “What do you want?” the pirate captain asked drunkenly, running his eyes up and down her.

            “I have a message for you. Suvaris Atheron wants you to stop trying to cheat her,” Gytha responded coolly.

            “You tell that greyskin to go fuck herself,” Stig declared. “If we didn’t have Haldyn, the Shatter-Shields would be contending with the Company and losing!”

            “Hey, I’m just the messenger and the sour old bitch didn’t even pay me for carrying it,” Gytha admitted dourly. “All because I took something from the fucking Shatter-Shields when they refused to pay me…”

            Stig patted her shoulder companionably. “We’re returning to Japhet’s Folly in a few days. You look like a decent sellsword and Haldyn’s always looking for more muscle.”

            “Tell me about this Haldyn?” she asked, gesturing to the waitress to bring more drinks.

            Over the course of three meads, two ales and a bottle of inferior Alto Wine, Stig revealed that the Blood Horkers had been recruited by a powerful battlemage named Haldyn who was looking to build the biggest pirate fleet in northern Tamriel after getting booted from the Imperial Legion. Gytha made all the right impressed noises, learned from her time in Elisif’s court, until he made a slurred lewd suggestion… and fell asleep.

            She made her excuses and left for the door before they figured out she was neither a sellsword nor a pirate.

            Back in Windhelm, she came in through the front gate and saw Suvaris Atheron getting bullied by Rolff Stone-Fist, a drunk she remembered from the last time she was here, and a beggar whose name she couldn’t recall. Walking up to them, she copied Bryling’s legendary death-stare until both men backed off hastily from a scar-faced woman in fine green wool with her hair in a warrior’s braid.

            “Thanks,” Suvaris said with a sigh. “They like to cause trouble in the Grey Quarter.”

            “Maybe you’ll get lucky and Rolff will choke to death on a half-rotten horker fin,” Gytha sympathised, then pretended to fall against Suvaris, scattering the records the Dunmer held and dropping the logbook in with them. “Shit, sorry, bad balance since I took a shield to the head!”

            Suvaris half-wheezed and half-laughed, helping Gytha up and accepting her aid in picking up the books. “At least you’re not as bad as most of the other Stormcloaks,” she said with a sigh.

            “Who said it was an _Imperial_ shield to the head I took?” Gytha pointed out, grateful that a different outfit and hairstyle made her look dramatically different to the leather-armoured sellsword Suvaris had no doubt reported to the guard.

            The Dunmer’s eyes narrowed as she sorted out her books. “I… _see_.”

            A random guard passed by, eyeing them oddly until Gytha gave him that cool aristocratic stare Elisif deployed to great effect. He decided to leave rather hastily after that. “The Dunmer of Windhelm haven’t been forgotten,” she murmured mysteriously. “And the Legion accepts all help it can possibly get. Even a hint can end this civil war for good.”

            She might as well keep her promise to Tullius.

            Suvaris looked around and narrowed her eyes. It was trite but Gytha had made sure to read a few Breton spy novels to know what to do. “Ulfric Stormcloak is heading south to Riften in the next week or two,” she murmured. “At least according to Master Tornbjorn, who had his audience with the Jarl about the Butcher of Windhelm cancelled. He was… quite angry about it.”

            _Well, that’s useful,_ Gytha thought. Maybe she was getting the hang of this spy stuff.

            She dropped the last of her coin into Suvaris’ hand, heartily told her to buy a drink, and wandered off towards the docks. Now to let the Company know so she could return to Solitude.

…

_THIS IS NOT WHAT I VOLUNTEERED FOR!_

            Gytha was less than amused as she ran through the camp that surrounded Japhet’s Folly to the front door, grateful that there’d been some good invisibility potions at the White Phial. She was not built for frontal assaults like Adelaisa Vendicci, former Imperial Navy officer turned Admiral of the East Empire Trade Company’s own private maritime forces.

            She made the door just as it opened, sliding past the skinny Bosmer high on skooma, and headed straight for the doors. Deal with Haldyn, destroy the mist and the Company could do the rest of the work.

            The invisibility potion wore off just as a burly Redguard man in iron armour came tromping down the stairs. “Who are you?” he demanded.

            “Name’s Gytha. Came to tell Haldyn that… that…” Gytha gasped for breath. “Stig did a runner for Hammerfell with the cargo.” Not a lie, because she’d observed his pirate friends loading him on the ship and sailing away.

            “Son of an inbred horker!” the man snapped. “Haldyn’s upstairs.”

            Haldyn was indeed upstairs, engrossed in enchanting something and wearing fine steel plate. Gytha carefully drew her newest weapon, a powerful crossbow given to her by Adelaisa on reporting Haldyn’s involvement, from her pack. Already cocked and loaded, she pointed it at the man’s back and pulled the trigger.

            It struck true, the bolt punching through the steel plate, and he slumped over the enchanting table with a weak cry. Gytha drew the ebony war axe, looted from Potema’s most powerful draugr and now comfortable in her hand, and smashed his head in with one blow. He should have worn a helmet.

            The fortress began to be rocked by the catapults that Adelaisa’s ships had brought and Gytha quickly drank her second invisibility potion. Time to do a runner herself.

…

Adelaisa Vendicci gave her own cabin to Jarl Elisif’s agent, who’d allowed them to finally locate Haldyn and killed the man with a single blow. The slim woman, who had the poor skin and chipped teeth of a rough life, was being tended to by Adelaisa’s own healer mage in the Admiral’s own bed as they sailed to Solitude with the good news for General Tullius. The Admiral had already told Orthus the good news.

            “I see you live up to your reputation,” Adelaisa noted once the healer left.

            “Of getting lucky?” the Black Wolf of Solitude observed dryly. “I snuck in, bullshitted when I got caught, and shot Haldyn in the back with a crossbow before braining him with an axe.”

            Vittoria Vicci had mentioned the woman’s almost painful humility, no doubt born from a lifetime as a near-vagrant, but Adelaisa gave credit where it was due. “I wouldn’t have cared if you seduced him and killed him with a poisoned cup,” the Admiral told the woman. “You got the job done and… well, I won’t admit this outside of the cabin, but you saved my head. The Emperor himself appointed me to this post after I retired from the Navy with the mandate that I keep the shipping lanes open. Haldyn’s little group was making that job very, very hard.”

            “Glad to be of service,” Gytha observed, looking like hell. Running a gauntlet of pissed-off pirates and almost getting hit with flaming boulders would do that do a person.

            “The Company owes you more than gold. So long as I’m Admiral, you will never have to pay for passage on a Company ship,” Adelaisa promised. “That’s on top of the job offer Vittoria Vicci will no doubt make.”

            Gytha was already shaking her head in that stubborn Nord fashion. “I’m Elisif’s Thane,” she said quietly. “The Jarl still needs me.”

            Adelaisa nodded in acknowledgement of her loyalty. “I’ll likely be patrolling the Sea of Ghosts for a while, so if we’re in the same port, feel free to have a drink for me or ask for a favour.”

            Those green eyes were thoughtful. “I dropped a hint or two to the Dunmer and the Argonians that the Empire hadn’t forgotten them,” she said quietly. “Please make sure that’s true because I got help from them during this job… and something I need to tell General Tullius.”

            Adelaisa heard the tight excitement in the agent’s voice and knew that something which could end the war was in that woman’s head. Instead of asking, she left the cabin and ordered the sailors to crowd on more sail.

            The sooner this war was ended, the better.


	7. The Road to Helgen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for fantastic racism.

Hands bound and mouth gagged, Ulfric Stormcloak was robbed of his power, if not his dignity. Riding a swayback piebald gelding ‘liberated’ from the Stormcloaks, Gytha would have happily traded places with one of the prisoners on the carts because even with the makeshift hose she’d fashioned from Stormcloak armour wrappings, her thighs chafed painfully and her legs protested. But once they were at Helgen and Ulfric’s head on a pike, she could return home to Solitude and figure out her future from there.

            She shifted on horseback uncomfortably, wondering when Solitude had become home to a vagrant who had none. Gytha was still half a fraud, not nearly as skilled as the bards and Jarl Elisif made her out to be, yet she had become Elisif’s supporter in the weeks since she wore a borrowed outfit to the Blue Palace to run an errand up there. The truth of her past was more or less revealed, though many still believed it hadn’t been cowardice but a long plan to see the Stormcloaks pay for the Markarth Incident. She wished she were that good, if only for Elisif’s sake, because once Ulfric was executed the real games would begin, everyone wanting a slice of the pie in Skyrim.

            Tullius, riding a magnificent blood bay stallion from the West Wealde, dropped back to ride alongside her. “Even when Ulfric is executed, the real work will yet to be done,” the General noted with a sigh. “Stormcloak supporters will need to be rooted out, new Jarls appointed…”

            “Most of the Jarls who support Ulfric are fairly toothless without him,” Gytha pointed out. “By all means replace the dangerous ones – Skald controls a major port for all Dawnstar’s small size and Laila Law-Giver needs to be replaced by her son Saerlund, who’s ballsy enough to support the Empire in a Stormcloak Hold openly – but unless the people want them gone, keep the Jarls there. It’ll make the Imperial victory easier to swallow.”

            “I didn’t know that about Saerlund Law-Giver,” Tullius admitted with some surprise. “Our pick was Maven.”

            “No. Gods no. That woman’s bad enough as Thane and I’ve only half-defanged her,” Gytha told him with a shudder. “Riften’s awful, but she makes the city worse.”

            “Hmm, perhaps marry Ingun Black-Briar to Saerlund. Gives us a loyal Jarl and rewards Maven for her loyalty without actually giving her any more power…” Tullius ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I admit, I trust honest ambition over Nord honour any day.”

            “You mean ‘lowlander Nord honour’,” Gytha said wryly, unable to believe she was speaking to the military governor as an equal. “Reach Nords tend to be a little more pragmatic.”

            “So I’m beginning to understand,” Tullius agreed, just as wryly.

            The agent fell silent, looking away from the General to enjoy the crisp, mountain flower-scented breeze coming from the Jeralls. It lacked the familiar fragrance of juniper to remind her of the Reach, the grass too green and lush, too much snow on the iron-grey stone and the mountains themselves not the silver-grey with blue striations of the Druadachs, but still a pleasant trip, made the more so by their destination. With Ulfric soon to be dead, the Stormcloaks should hopefully fade into obscurity, allowing Skyrim and the Empire to prepare for the next conflict.

            She glanced at the scar-faced Jarl in his fine chainmail robes, sea-green eyes glinting like shards of broken wine bottle glass above the gag. She wondered if he recalled the purge of Markarth and the massacre at Karthwasten or whether they were merely moments in a long and bloody career. No god, be they old or new, was worth the blood that soaked the Reach’s soil.

            “Is it necessary the horse thief die?” she asked Tullius softly. “He’s no Stormcloak.”

            The General sighed. “Even if he hadn’t stolen Legion property, I performed the carnificina for a reason. I have to put the Stormcloak rebellion down hard.”

            Gytha avoided the pleading gaze of Lokir from Rorikstead, a vagrant she sometimes met on the roads of Skyrim. “Die well,” she told him. “And you will never starve nor freeze again in Sovngarde.”

            It was the only help she could offer him.

            “What would an Imperial bootlicker know of Sovngarde?” asked the handsome albeit bedraggled blonde lowlander Nord who sat next to Lokir, his tone rich with scorn. “Tell me, what price your honour?”

            Gytha met his blue eyes in a flat gaze. “I lost family in both Markarth and Karthwasten, _lowlander_.”

            “Don’t dignify him with an answer,” Tullius advised before he nudged his horse into a canter. “The Black Wolf of Solitude answers to none but Jarl Elisif and the Empire.”

            “More to Jarl Elisif than the Empire,” Gytha murmured under her breath. The Jarl had given her trust where none was deserved and raised her to Thane, after all.

            Murmurs broke out amongst the Stormcloaks as several, including Jarl Ulfric, looked in her direction. To hear half of the rebels tell it, she singlehandedly helped the Empire capture Ulfric, which was bullshit when all she did was give the General the intelligence and accompany him on the ambush that took the Jarl.

            It was better than going back to Markarth, though Gytha knew she’d have to face that particular set of demons soon before the Silver-Bloods managed to entrench themselves so tightly into the Reach not even the Empire could winkle them out.

            She felt a measuring gaze upon her; a side glance revealed Ulfric was watching her intently. Pointedly looking away, she watched the walls of Helgen near and felt relief that it would soon all be over. Elisif could become High Queen, marry Hrongar and have Jarl Balgruuf as an advisor, and they could all get on with their lives.

            Fate, of course, had other plans. But that was for another story.


End file.
